


Unexpecting

by purpleeyesandbowties



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Trans Male Character, angst at the beginning fluff the rest of the way thru, bilbo is trans and he gets pregnant that's it that's the story, dwarves do gender differently, i wrote this bc my monkey brain wants me to get pregnant but my dysphoria says No Way In Hell, making up shit about dwarves and hobbits, other trans characters include ori fili and bofur, this is a pregnancy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleeyesandbowties/pseuds/purpleeyesandbowties
Summary: Bilbo emerges from the Battle of Five Armies with a bit more than a knock on the head.





	Unexpecting

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all obviously there's some trigger warnings attached to this fic, most notably pregnancy, dysphoria, and birth.  
> if pregnancy squicks you, this is not ur fic, i'm very sorry.  
> the birth itself is described non-graphically, but you can skip that scene easily if you want to-- it's near the end and starts with "birth was hard" and ends with "dull ache of memory"  
> discussions of dysphoria (and mild transphobia) are scattered throughout, but none of those scenes last long.  
> above all else, this is a happy family story. please let me know if you need more in-depth trigger warnings! i'm sidras-tak on tumblr.

Bilbo knew he was overlooking something. There was nothing wrong with him, per say, just….different. Unknown, but important somehow. He didn’t know what it was, but it tugged at him, a thought at the back of his mind that refused to come to the forefront. A vital piece of information that he could not, for the life of him, place. Not that anyone could blame him—there had just been a war, after all, and he’d been much closer to it than his Hobbitish nature preferred. So he attempted to shake off the forbidding feeling and get on with his life. There was a lot of it to do, now that the battle had been won. 

_Won_. well, maybe that was too strong a word, for the overwhelming number of wounded Dwarves and weeping families. How could a mountain reeking of the dead and shaking with grief consider itself won? War had no victors, and Bilbo knew he wasn’t the only one to think so.

Although the battle itself was done, the clean-up effort never ended. As one of the few members of the Company to emerge from battle unharmed (bump on his head notwithstanding), much of the responsibility and too many important decisions fell squarely on his tired shoulders.

The fortnight after the battle, Bilbo split his time between being chased by half a dozen Dwarves asking him pressing questions he had no authority whatsoever to answer and rushing about the infirmary, helping healers bandage, medicate, clean, and feed the many injured Dwarves, Men and Elves that clogged up Erebor’s healing halls.

Once the insanity of the healing ward mercifully slowed to a jog rather than a full-out sprint, Bilbo was pulled into other tasks. He was expected, for reasons unknown and unexplained to him, to act as a leader to the ever-growing influx of Dwarven refugees and a mediator between the mountain and the Men of Laketown. He signed temporary treaties, wondering the whole time how and why the signature of a Hobbit was binding to a mountainfull of Dwarves. He gave up a good deal of his share of the treasure to keep the Men and Elves who had fought sheltered and fed while they regrouped and healed and mourned their losses, but he found he didn’t mind in the slightest. Some things were more important than gold and jewels, he told himself, and pushed away the pang of hurt that came with that thought. He assigned refugees homes and temporary work as best he could and only cried when the door to his room was shut fast for the night. He did not sleep well.

The enormous workload wore on him steadily. He could feel exhaustion settling into his bones—he thought the long journey from his home to this new one taught him the meaning of weariness, yet he found that he, once again, was wrong. Dark circles nearly ate up his eyes, and he had trouble both eating and sleeping. Whatever he managed to force down soon made a reappearance, and he resigned himself to the ache of hunger clashing with the discomfort of nausea. It was a welcome distraction from other kinds of pain. 

The comfortable layer of fat he had carried with him all his life was stripped away, bit by bit, leaving behind a Hobbit he didn’t recognize. He missed his slapdash family of Dwarves, loud and bright and lively, but all were either as busy as he or still clinging to life in the healing halls. Bilbo bit his lip, banishing that thought as well. They had been lucky not to lose any of the Company to the battle. Lucky, Bilbo reminded himself dully, remembering sitting up in the middle of the battle with an aching, pounding head. He had forgotten his pain the moment his eyes had caught on the form of a Dwarf locked in combat with the most grotesque Orc he’d ever seen. Thorin had been bleeding heavily, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side, and his right hand clenched around the bloody handle of Orcrist. Bilbo had watched, helpless and horrified, as Thorin fell. But he got up again, and the Orc did not, and Bilbo did not remember what came after.

One morning, nearly a month after the battle, Bilbo rose with the sun, as he was used to doing. He’d gotten barely a wink of sleep the night before, his mind straying, as it always did, to the infirmary that housed two young Dwarves very dear him, and one more that he hardly let himself think about. He glanced at the small bowl of fruit sitting on a table near the door and shook his head. He felt awful about turning down what was obviously a delicacy when the rest of Erebor lived mostly on bread and salted meat. But his stomach turned at the mere thought of an apple. He forced himself to nibble on some bread, hating every bite. He washed and changed quickly, still thinking about his recovering charges. Fili and Kili were healing as well as they could, no small comfort to him. The last time he had visited (the previous day) they were able to make conversation for nearly a full hour before tiring themselves. He was told they would likely be released by the end of the month. Bilbo did not ask about Thorin, and the two boys did not bring him up.

He was stirred from his thoughts by a knock on his door. It swung open to reveal the sheepish smile of a dear friend.

“Ori, good morning!” Bilbo said, plastering on a smile in spite of his discomfort—his stomach was really feeling quite nasty, apple or no. Ori smiled back and gave a little bow, muttering an apology for not stopping by to check on him sooner. Bilbo waved it off, feigning breeziness and an energy he had not had in months.

“I was wondering if you had time for the washing—I’ve two months’ worth now, and they’re starting to stink,” Ori said.

Bilbo nodded and searched for his own bag—much nicer than Ori’s leather patchwork one, but Bilbo had gotten his from his mother upon his coming of age, and kept it very carefully all these years.

Just like Bilbo, the youngest brother Ri had begun his life under a very different moniker. Ori was later to discover himself than Bilbo had been, according to their shared stories, but Dwarves viewed gender differently than Hobbits did, anyway, so maybe that was no surprise. 

Bilbo probably would not have known, or even befriended Ori so closely, had he not woken one night to find Ori stealing herbs from his bag. Ori had been mightily embarrassed to be caught, and Bilbo confused as to why he needed the herbs, which were specific to easing menstrual cramps. 

Ori had blushed and admitted he’d seen Bilbo take the herbs and knew what they meant—though many of the other Dwarves did not—and that his own supply had run out last month.

Bilbo gladly shared what he had with Ori, and the two became much closer. They’d made a habit of washing their bleeding rags together, whenever the Company passed a river or stream that suited their needs.

“Has it been two months already? Lucky I haven’t run out of cloths—I still have quite a few clean ones tucked away somewhere.”

The used-cloth bag was stuffed in the bottom of his pack. He pulled it out and risked a glance inside the airtight bag, hoping it wouldn’t stink too badly.

“Well, that’s odd,” he said, opening the bag more fully. 

“What is?” Ori asked. 

“It’s just…my bag is empty. I haven’t got any used cloths. I must have missed a bleeding—two?—no, I couldn’t have missed two, I’m very regular. You could keep a calendar by Baggins cycles, that’s a known fact.”

Even as he said it, thoughts began snapping themselves into place in his fuzzy, sleep-hungry mind. The sickness, the sleepless nights, the strange feeling that had been plaguing him for so long; it all began to make a horrible, unbelievable kind of sense.

“Oh, no,” he muttered.

“What?” Ori asked fearfully.

“Ori,” Bilbo said, horror-struck. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Then he promptly bent over and vomited on the floor.

—

Bilbo thanked his lucky stars that it was Ori who had been there for him. Ori, sensible and quick-witted and calm, who held his hair back while he was sick and helped him back into bed. Ori sent for a healer and cleaned up the sick himself, keeping up a steady chatter of nothing in particular while Bilbo tried to remember how to breathe. He returned to Bilbo’s side and offered a handkerchief just in time for the tears to start in earnest. He listened as Bilbo blubbered, rubbing his back kindly and nodding when appropriate.

Bilbo managed to pull himself together as the healer arrived, a stout female Dwarf with a strong jaw and silver threaded through her beard. She introduced herself as Nomi, daughter of Xomi.

“What ails you, Master Hobbit?” she asked, taking Bilbo’s temperature and pulse efficiently. Bilbo opened his mouth, but no words came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I believe…” 

Ori, Aule bless him, cut in with, “Bilbo believes he is with child.”

Nomi’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed? When was your last bleeding cycle?”

“Um…the last I remember was right before Laketown,” he said. He flushed, remembering just _why_ he remembered. He had been overjoyed to partake in a real bed for the first time in months and had been even more overjoyed he had finished his bleeding a few days before. There was nothing—bodily—to ruin his time alone with…..

Ah, of course, that’s when it must have happened.

Ori quietly informed the healer that he’d had two bleedings since then, and was mid-cycle at the moment.

She hummed in thought, gently probing Bilbo’s stomach with large fingers. Bilbo resisted the urge to pull away. She said, “Well, I cannot feel it as I would feel a Dwarfling, but you are a Hobbit, so it does not surprise me. Nevertheless, given your symptoms and the number of cycles you’ve missed, I can safely say that you are, indeed, carrying.”

She smiled for the first time, transforming her craggy face. “Congratulations upon you. May Mahal bless you and the child!” 

She went on to prescribe a diet of simple food and at least two weeks of bedrest. “You are far  too thin, Master Bilbo. I don’t pretend to know much about Hobbits, but a blindfolded fool could see the way your clothes hang off you—and the mother in me begs to feed you up, being honest. You need to regain some weight, make sure you and the wee one are both safe.”

Ori tugged Nomi’s sleeve. Quietly, he said, “I would not presume to ask for any other, but Mister Bilbo does not know our customs. I know him better than most—we are brothers in spirit, if I’m not too hasty to assume—would you grant me the position as his keeper?”

Nomi’s face softened and she looked almost joyful. “Without hesitation or question, Master Ori. You will be well-suited to the task.”

She cupped Ori and Bilbo’s cheeks briefly with her large hand, smiled once again, and left. Ori let out a little sigh of admiration.

“What was that about?” Bilbo asked.

“Hmm?” Ori said.

“The…permission thing.”

“Oh! Well, for Dwarves, pregnancy is a dangerous and difficult time. The bearer usually has one or two friends—always those capable of bearing—to protect and guide them as they develop. If anything should happen to you—Mahal forbid,” he added fervently, “I will protect you and the child. In the unlikely case of your death, I would nurse the babe myself. I know it was unkind of me to take that choice from you, and you may, of course, choose another keeper. I know Fili will be livid I beat him to it, and so will—”

“Ori,” Bilbo said, holding up his hand to cut off the slightly-panicked babble. Surprisingly, he felt warm amusement trickle through him, replacing the sick worry that had been lodged in his stomach so long. “Thank you. I would be honored to have you as my….keeper? Is that correct?”

“Yes, correct indeed,” Ori replied beaming. He bounced in place on the edge of the bed, his feet swinging off the ground. “Oh, this is exciting indeed, Master Baggins! Congratulations, once again!”

“But…” Bilbo said slowly. “I am unmarried. I have never even been formally courted. Master Ori, where I come from, it is not done, and it is certainly not _congratulated_.”

Ori shook his head. “I always forget how strangely Hobbits approach the simplest things,” he muttered. “You must understand that to Dwarves, children are a rarity, a true blessing from Mahal. No matter when a child is formed, it is a gift, and always celebrated.”

He hesitated. “Of course, we understand that there are cases in which such a gift is unwelcome. The bearer is not ready, or is unwell, or does not have the means or the desire for a child. There are empty families happy to take in a child. If that is not an option, there is a safe, healthy way to end the pregnancy. I tell you this because it is common knowledge among Dwarves, and you are a Dwarf in spirit if not in blood. If this bairn is not for you, it will not have to be your burden. No one will fault you, especially being Changed.”

Bilbo sighed heavily. “What would you do, Ori? If you were me?”

“Now, that’s not an entirely fair question,” Ori began. He wrapped his arms around himself self-consciously. “I have always longed to carry a child—it does not bother me, that my body is built to have babies, as it does for some of my Changed brothers.”

Bilbo nodded. There was a word for what they were in the Dwarves’ strange, harshly beautiful language, but Bilbo struggled to both hear and pronounce the words. It was a clunky translation, to be sure, and Ori assured him it didn’t catch the nuances of respect and awe of the term. The Changed were highly respected among Dwarves and often thought to know themselves better than the average Dwarf. Bilbo had often wished his own people felt the same way. There wasn’t even a word for him, back in Hobbiton. Well, at least none that he would care to repeat in polite company.

“I am not you,” Ori continued. “Just because I would welcome this child does not mean you have to. No matter your choice, I will stand by you.”

They sat in silence for a long while, each lost to his thoughts. Bilbo thought, perhaps a touch bitterly, that it was a shame it was him in this position and not Ori. Ori would be overjoyed. He would gather congratulations without worry or fear.

Bilbo’s own feelings on the matter were….complicated, not the least because of the circumstances. Before he discovered himself, he had dreamed of being a mother, as many younglings did, though the thought of childbearing was always daunting. Then, after his change, he shunned all connections to his previous womanhood with disgust. Now, approaching middle age and surrounded, for the first time, by people who treated him with respect for who he was, he felt something shift inside himself. Perhaps, in this place, he could indulge in the dream of childbearing once again—perhaps he could welcome this child. If only…

“Ori,” he said quietly. “I do not believe I want to end the pregnancy. I feel…I don’t know how to say it. I will carry it to term. But if I decide I am not prepared to be a mother—a father—whatever I am—oh blast it!”

He took a deep breath and started again. “You said you would nurse the baby if I were to die. If I gave it up of my own volition, would you do the same? Would you raise it?”

Ori nodded solemnly. “I would, and happily. I would treasure your child. Of course I would. But, please, Bilbo, think on it for a while before you decide for sure? I don’t want to get my hopes up in case you change your mind.”

“I’ll think on it,” Bilbo promised. He sunk further into his covers, his long-running exhaustion finally catching up to him. Ori smiled and patted his hand. 

“I will let you sleep now. You have earned this rest twice over.”

“Thank you, Ori. For everything.”

Instead of replying, Ori just pulled the blankets up to Bilbo’s chin, closed the curtains, and turned down the oil lamp at his bedside as he left. Bilbo watched the low flickering of the almost-dampened flame and thought, with unexplainable urgency, that he hoped it would not burn itself out while he slept. Before he could examine that thought further, he closed his eyes and slept soundly for the first time in months.

—

Ori did not rouse him for a full day. When Bilbo awoke, it was to an aching bladder and a grumbling stomach. He swung himself out of bed and stopped short at the sight of Ori, sitting on a chair in the corner of his room.

“Hullo,” he said cautiously. “How long have you been there?”

“Just a few hours,” Ori said, shrugging. “I was going to wake you, but you were snoring so contentedly….”

“So you just…stayed?” Bilbo said. He fidgeted uncomfortably. 

“Oh, sorry,” Ori said quickly. “Hobbity manners, I forgot.”

Bilbo pursed his lips. “I truly do appreciate it, Ori, but in the future, please just wake me. I would prefer to know who is in my room and when.”

“Right,” Ori said sheepishly. He held up a tray. “I brought breakfast?”

Bilbo smiled. “And just like that, you’re back in my good graces.”

As he ate, Ori caught him up on the happenings of the castle since the previous day. The princes and the king continued to improve. Aside from those three, all of the Company had been cleared by the healers and were beginning to integrate themselves into life in Erebor. They were all concerned for their Master Thief, of course, but Ori and Nomi had forbidden visitors until Bilbo felt ready for them.

Bilbo was only a little guilty at the relief he felt.

The news of the day came to end, but Ori had that look on his face like he was fighting himself. It was so reminiscent of the night with the pain herbs that Bilbo frowned. “What is it, Ori? You look like you want to say something.”

“Ah, well. It’s just—I was wondering if you knew the sire. I’m fairly sure I know…but I would not dare to presume.”

Bilbo hesitated. He knew Ori would not fault him if he didn’t say. But if the baby came into the world with piercing blue eyes and thick black hair, there would be no hiding it.

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re probably right. It’s Thorin,” he admitted. Ori grasped Bilbo’s hand tightly.

“As I thought—oh, all at once I think I understand those tears of yours,” he said. “Have you—does he suspect?”

“How could he?” Bilbo asked helplessly. “I haven’t spoken to him since before the battle.”

“But—but you visit the infirmary nearly every day!”

“I’ve been helping where I can, and visiting Fili and Kili. I don’t go to the king’s private room, and he has not asked to see me either.” Bilbo swallowed, knotting his bedsheets in his sweaty hands. “I would not be surprised if he did not speak to me again.”

“Why not?” Ori asked gently. “You are his lover, after all.”

“Yes, his lover and his _betrayer_. The last time he—he spoke to me, he made it very clear what I did was unforgivable,” Bilbo replied bitterly.

Ori’s eyes narrowed. Bilbo knew he was also remembering the scene on the battlements.

“The king wasn’t in his right mind when he banished you—goldsick as a dragon, half out of his mind. Now that he’s recovered, he’ll see the error of his ways and welcome you back. On his knees, begging for forgiveness, no doubt, or I’m not a Ri. Dwarves don’t treat their loves so harshly!” 

Suddenly, Ori slammed a fist against the wall, eyes lighting up with fury.

“Ooh, I’m going to kill that bastard,” he snarled. The rage in his gentle friend’s face was enough to make Bilbo laugh in surprise, interrupting the tears welling up in his eyes. Good, Bilbo had cried enough to last himself a lifetime. 

“You were pregnant when he nearly threw you off the mountain! Oh, I’m going to shave his head while he sleeps and use the braids to strangle him!”

Bilbo grabbed Ori’s sleeve to stop him from marching down to the infirmary and making good on his promise.

“He didn’t know!”

“Doesn’t excuse the way he acted! And with you carrying his child! I’m going to slap him straight into Mirkwood, don’t think I won’t! What if he hurt you, either of you?”

“Ori, I’m fine! I’m fine, and I’m sure the baby is too,” Bilbo assured Ori, wondering how he had gone from refusing to think about Thorin to defending him from one of his own Company—and where this sudden fury came from in his usually-calm friend.

It took a few minutes of reassurances, but Ori eventually settled down. “I’m still gonna slap him the next time I see him, mark my words. And I can’t promise what the rest of the company will do when they find out. We’re all very fond of you, Bilbo.”

“I know, you silly Dwarf. But, please, don’t tell the others. I would like to keep this as quiet as possible for a while yet. I’m still undecided about what I want to do.”

“Of course,” Ori promised. “This is all new to you, I know, and we will take it at your pace. No pressure, no obligations.”

Bilbo nodded his weary thanks. He stretched and yawned despite his long rest the night before. Ori took the hint and left him to rest.

“Take care of yourself, Bilbo,” he said. “You’ve run yourself into the ground this past month. We all thank you for it, but you’ve pushed yourself too far for too long. Recover and get strong again. This whole mountain would fall apart without you.”

—

After two weeks abed, Bilbo was growing restless. He had read all the books the mountain had to offer in a language he could understand, and he did as much paperwork as Ori would give him. The rest seemed to help, though. He had gained back weight slowly but steadily, thanks to Bombur’s bland but carb-laden porridges and soups. His eyes were clear, the dark circles under them diminished, and his head no longer ached endlessly. Even his stomach settled down a bit, helped along by regular meals, though it did give him a turn in the mornings. Nomi the healer had recommended that he do some light exercise when he felt up to it, and so he walked up and down the dizzying sprawl of hallways in the afternoons. More often than not, a member of his Company slipped away from their duties and walked with him. With the exception of the Durins, of course, who were still cooped up in the infirmary. Guiltily, Bilbo was glad—he wasn’t yet ready to face Thorin. There was too much uncertainty and too many secrets between them.

Bilbo silently thanked whatever Valor that was listening that Ori could keep a secret. The Company was already fussing over him enough after his “collapse” due to “exhaustion”. If they were to find out that he was pregnant, he would be lucky to get a moment’s peace until the baby came and even after that. 

And aside from that….Bilbo didn’t know which of them knew. It seemed most of them knew about Ori, but there was something about his braids that looked different than the others. Bilbo knew there was some connection between braids and indication of position in the world—maybe gender was part of that as well.

After a lifetime in the Shire, where folk still slipped up and called him by his old name, it was a welcome relief to live amongst people who only knew him as Bilbo. He would be able to pass off his weight gain as recovery for a while yet, but what happened when he began to show in earnest? Would he have to trade his trousers and waistcoats for roomy dresses made for expecting women? Bilbo shuddered at the thought—he’d rather run around the palace in his unmentionables before wearing skirts again. He would ask Ori if they made pregnancy clothes that would suit him, or if he would have to throw something together himself.

One morning, in the middle of filling out some paperwork, his pen stilled. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts had drifted once more to Thorin. His Thorin. His king, his leader, his once-upon-a-time lover. 

What if Thorin couldn’t forgive Bilbo’s betrayal? What if it wasn’t the gold madness itself that made him snarl Bilbo’s name like it was a curse? What if he didn’t love him anymore? And worse, what if never had? What if he had just been looking for a quick fuck and had whispered those pretty words of devotion and love to get what he wanted? And Bilbo had fallen into his arms and into his bed without hesitation, lovestruck and hungry for affection. Did Thorin laugh at him, at his eagerness and naivety? Now that he had his mountain back, how long would it before Thorin found another, more Dwarvish bedmate? After all, Thorin was a king, and Bilbo wasn’t even a proper Hobbit.

Bilbo didn’t realize he was crying until the ink under his fingers smeared against the fragile paper. He sniffed, trying to pull himself together, but at that moment, his door slammed open and Bofur and Bifur came tumbling in, no doubt to ask him for a walk. They surrounded him instantly, offering quiet condolences and words of reassurance. Bilbo listened to them assure him that the princes and king would recover soon, not to worry about that Mister Baggins, and he let himself be comforted. Even when they didn’t know why he cried, they protected and comforted him. Even if Thorin never forgave him, he had a family here who would care for him. 

—

Ori brought in tea and news that afternoon, interrupting Bilbo’s gloomy mental planning for when Thorin banished him for good. He was trying to figure out how to secure his way back to the Shire. On an eagle, perhaps, if he could get in contact with Gandalf somehow. Maybe the wizard himself could escort him back. Maybe he should wait until after the baby was born—it would be ridiculously dangerous to give birth while traveling, and traveling alone to boot. Maybe he could stay in Laketown, with Bard and his little family, until the bairn came. 

Maybe he could stop in some town along the way, where there were Hobbits and Men and Dwarves living together in relative peace and start a new life, never to see his precious Bag End or his slapdash family again.

But also to never face the shame of returning to the Shire empty-handed aside from a squalling half-dwarven baby on his hip. 

So it was six of one, half a dozen of the other.

“Bilbo,” Ori said, sitting on the edge of the bed and drawing his friend back to reality. “I was just informed that princes and king will be released from the infirmary tomorrow morning. I thought you would like a bit of a warning.”

“Thank you, Ori, I appreciate it,” Bilbo said. He put down his cup, no longer in the mood for his tea.

“I will keep them away if you wish—any or all of them.”

“No,” Bilbo said hesitantly. “I will need to face him sooner or later. And I’ve missed seeing my princes.”

He stayed quiet for a moment. Then, he asked, “If it’s not a bother, will you stay with me when they visit? Thorin, especially. I don’t want to be alone with him yet.”

That was a lie—kind of. Bilbo wanted more than anything to be alone with Thorin, to feel his strong hands, his warm lips, his strong arms, his scratchy beard. But he wanted to be with Thorin of the quest, not Thorin, King of Erebor. The Thorin who smiled and let Bilbo weave flowers through his hair and chatter on about their meanings, not the Thorin whose eyes were cold and hard as diamonds, distant as stars.

Ori seemed to understand. He nodded his assent instantly, almost before the words were out of Bilbo’s mouth. Bilbo smiled his thanks and leaned back, picking up his tea again, and let Ori’s report of the day wash over him, calming his nerves.

—

The next morning, Bilbo found himself profoundly un-hungry—whether it was the pregnancy or the nerves was anyone’s guess and Bilbo was far too tired to decide which one was responsible. 

Ori arrived with a bowl of sweet porridge for each of them and they ate at Bilbo’s desk while waiting for an inevitable knock on the door.

Bilbo just managed to swallow his third spoonful when the door burst open without as so much as a tap on the wood first. Bilbo found himself struggling to stay upright as two eager princelings clung to him. Fili and Kili talked over each other loudly, cutting off and completing each other’s sentences.

“Bilbo, we heard you were bedridden! What are you doing up and around?” Fili demanded.

“Better yet, what put you in that bed to begin with?” Kili interrupted. “It must have been bad to keep you from us for two whole weeks. Fee here thought you’d kicked the bucket when you skipped three whole visit days in a row. It took Oin showing him a piece of paperwork with your signature and the day’s date to convince him you were still alive.”

“And how could you, honestly?” Fili scolded. “Getting sick just as we got healed up! Why must one of us always be out of sorts? It’s hardly fair.”

“I agree with you there,” Bilbo laughed. He hugged his princes tightly, feeling lighter than he had in ages. 

“Seriously, are you alright, Bilbo? We’re very worried, and none of the others will tell us a peep.”

“I threatened Ori on pain of death and he _still_ won’t tell us what’s wrong with you. It must be serious,” Kili said.

“Just a bit too much work and not enough rest, that’s all,” Bilbo said, struggling to keep his smile in place. He ached to tell them—he was sure they’d be delighted for him. But he couldn’t, not until some other uncertainties were answered.

The boys raided Bilbo’s stash of cookies and cakes eagerly, complaining through full mouths about the bland infirmary food. Bilbo let them, happy to let their young energy fill him up with warmth. He loved these boys, sure as the sun shines, like they were his own. The smile slid from his face and he wrapped a loose arm around his midsection. Like his own….

“What’s wrong, Master Burglar?” Kili asked, cookie crumbs in his scruffy beard.

“Nothing, m’lad,” Bilbo promised and snatched a cookie from his hand to distract him. Bilbo stuffed the cookie in his mouth, grinning at Kili’s un-prince-like whining. 

A knock sounded at the door, heavy and insistent. Bilbo froze, cookie turning to coal in his mouth. He swallowed roughly and washed down his cough with some cold tea. Kili, Fili, and Bilbo were all on their feet in an instant. Fili and Kili flanked him, one posted at either shoulder protectively. Fili reached for knives that weren’t in his boots anymore. 

Ori strode quickly to the door, face hard with anger. He yanked it open and bowed stiffly to his king. Thorin entered, leaning on a stick to keep his balance. He took in the scene—his two nephews standing guard over a panicked and crumb-covered thief-Hobbit, and another of his Company glaring daggers two steps away.

Thorin looked like hell, if Bilbo was being honest. His left arm was immobilized, bound to his side, his face was more bruise than flesh. He could see bandages peeking out from his shirt hem, suspiciously blood-colored. Still, Bilbo’s breath caught at the sight of him. Baby-hormones, he told himself, as his eyes welled up with tears. He was still afraid, of course—he’d be a fool not to be—but suddenly that fear seemed so much less important when faced with the reality of how close he’d gotten to losing Thorin. 

Thorin said nothing, and neither did Bilbo.

“Nice to see you, Uncle,” Kili said, pseudo-causally. Thorin’s eyes flickered over to his nephew. He raised an eyebrow pointedly.

“Right then,” Fili said quietly. “Bilbo?”

“I’m alright, go on,” Bilbo assured. He squeezed their hands. “Thanks for visiting, boys. It’s so good to see you on your feet again.”

Each of the boys knocked their heads against Bilbo’s and took their leave quickly. They nodded a bow at Thorin respectfully, but Fili leveled him with a look full of warning. Thorin inclined his head in acknowledgment, but didn’t respond. 

Then, it was just Bilbo and Thorin, standing a room apart, and Ori hovering by the king.

“Leave us,” Thorin said to Ori in a voice that was cracked and rusty with disuse. Bilbo wondered if he’d spoken since the battle. Unlikely, with a voice that rough. As the king, he would have had no lack of visitors during his recovery, but if there was one thing Thorin Oakenshield did well, it was brooding silence. 

“No,” Ori said firmly and took another step towards Bilbo. Thorin’s eyebrows rose.

“Ori will stay,” Bilbo told the spot two feet to the left of Thorin’s ear. Thorin’s eyebrows bunched together again, glancing between them with suspicion. He narrowed his eyes at Ori, as if sizing him up.

And if there was something else Thorin Oakenshield did well, it was misplaced jealousy.

Ori eyed his king without fear, leaning against the wall in a carefully-calculated imitation of nonchalance. He flicked out his pocket knife to clean under his fingernails—it was such a Nori-like move that Bilbo almost laughed. 

Thorin took another limping step toward Bilbo. He stiffened without meaning to, and Thorin halted his tracks.

“Why did you not visit me?” he asked quietly. He sounded almost hurt.

Bilbo chewed his lip. “I did not think I would be welcome, King Thorin. My banishment has not been lifted.”

Thorin recoiled at the formability of Bilbo’s address, or maybe at the coldness in his voice. Bilbo had expected his comment to make Thorin’s quick temper flare. He had been prepared for a barrage of excuses or for him to storm away in that childish way he did, or even for another attack. He did not expect Thorin Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain, to cross the room in three limping strides and fall to his knees at Bilbo’s feet. Thorin hung his head, his one good hand clutching at Bilbo’s ankle in what was obviously an act of supplication.

“I know I have acted unforgivably. I cursed you, I banished you, I wished for your death. I laid my hands on you with intent to hurt, and I did so. I have never regretted an action more in my life—Bilbo, my Bilbo, nothing I can do will make up for the hurt I have caused you. I beg for your forgiveness, my heart, though I know I do not deserve it.”

Bilbo suddenly wished Ori was not in the room anymore. His face was bright red, he was sure. Gingerly, he moved his foot out of Thorin’s grip.

“Well, I—” he started, but Thorin had more to say. He lifted his head, those diamond-pure eyes steady on Bilbo’s.

“I know I have no claim over you. If I ever had any at all, I gave it up in the throes of my madness—no, I will not use my madness as an excuse. I gave up my claim on you the instant I allowed harm to come to you from my hand. The moment I let riches and power mean more to me than your touch. You were the greatest treasure I ever had, and I cast you aside in pursuit of a lesser jewel.”

Despite his best efforts, tears slipped down Bilbo’s cheeks, swift and silent. Thorin’s hands rose to brush them away before thinking better of it and withdrawing. 

“I have been the cause of too many of your tears,” he murmured. He stood fully and turned to leave. 

Bilbo could not help the hand that flew out and grabbed Thorin’s. Thorin looked down at their entwined hands.

“Bilbo?” he asked.

“Oh, you great stupid oaf,” Bilbo managed. “You are far too dramatic, has anyone ever told you that?”

An uncertain smile crossed Thorin’s face. “Indeed, Master Burglar, but I have never taken such a proclamation seriously before. However, if you say so, then I surely am.”

“See, that’s what I meant,” Bilbo said. “Dramatic as a tween’s name day party. How many times did you practice that pretty little speech?”

“Do you truly forgive me?” Thorin asked, low and soft.

“I can’t deny I was very upset—and I still am, don’t get me wrong! But yes, Thorin, you ridiculous Dwarf, I am well on the path to forgiving you. I am glad you want me still, particularly now.”

“I want you now and always, from this moment until the end of the world tears us apart,” Thorin promised.

“I said I would forgive you! You don’t have to keep up the theatrics,” Bilbo chided. Thorin huffed a laugh and rested his forehead against Bilbo’s. 

“I cannot help it. You inspire poetry in me, my treasure.” His voice was thick with tears but shot through with joy. “Truly, I should be years from forgiveness. And yet here you are, so soft and gentle. Full of steel and fire.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said. “While I would quite enjoy _years_ of devoted courting, songs and poetry and flowers—the whole nine-course meal—we don’t exactly have that much time.”

“What? Why don’t we have time?” Thorin asked, a note of worry in his voice. Bilbo shook himself out of his dreamy stupor. Drat it all, love always made his mouth stupid and his tongue loose.

“It’s already been an emotionally exhausting day,” Bilbo tried. Thorin took his hand and pressed it against his lips. Bilbo melted, as he always did.

“ _Ghivashel_ , please tell me. Something is troubling you and I wish to know how to help.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Bilbo groused, but he smiled through it. “Thorin, you just got out of the infirmary, so please do try not to have a heart attack. Just remember, first of all, that I am perfectly fine,” he began. Thorin gripped his hand tighter. 

“Are you ill? Injured? What is it?”

“No, Thorin, nothing that terrible. It’s just that…well, I’m going to have a baby.”

Thorin blinked so hard and fast Bilbo was worried for a moment that he’d broken the king of Erebor.

“Your baby,” he clarified, helpfully.

“My—but wait, how—when—?” Thorin stammered.

Bilbo bounced on his toes, unable to stop himself from teasing a little. “Thorin, when two people are in love and decide to show that love in a physical—”

Thorin pulled Bilbo into a deep hug, ultimately cutting off his words. If his breath hadn’t been stolen by Thorin’s good arm squishing the air out of him, it would have been by the sound of Thorin’s laugh. It boomed out of him, loud and free as a bird’s call. Bilbo thought he had never heard Thorin laugh like that—like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like he was joy itself.

“A baby!” Thorin cried, cupping Bilbo’s face in his hands.

Bilbo laughed too, overcome. He had been so worried—but groundlessly, it seemed. He wouldn’t be alone. He would not give birth on the road or in Bard’s tiny hovel. He wouldn't have to nurse his child in a tavern full of strangers or lay them to sleep in an inn’s creaky bed. No, he and Thorin would have this child and raise them in comfort, and more importantly, in love.

Thorin laughed again, half a sob caught in the sound. Bilbo kissed him. Their first kiss since the Arkenstone disaster, since the banishment and the war and the gold sickness and the discovery. Their first kiss since everything fell apart and came back together again.

“I’ll just leave then, shall I?” Ori called from his post against the wall. Thorin growled and waved an impatient hand toward the door. Ori shook his head at Bilbo’s flushed face and muttered something about useless lovers. He smiled warmly at Bilbo and closed the door behind him.

Thorin kissed him again. Bilbo would have been content to stay like that indefinitely, but all too soon, Thorin pulled away, a shadow falling over his face. “Bilbo, is this what you want?” he asked quietly.

“Why would I not want this?” Bilbo asked, chasing Thorin’s lips. 

“I am serious. Some Changed cannot carry a baby without intense distress. I would not have that for you.”

“I’ll be alright. I would’ve been alright on my own, and having you with me will make it easier. It will be hard, I admit, but if I’m strong enough to brave a dragon, I think I can handle a baby.”

Thorin chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind Bilbo’s ear. “Right as always, brave Hobbit. I am here. We will be a family.”

“We already are,” Bilbo said. He tugged gently on one of Thorin’s braids to emphasize his point. “We’re just adding another to our number.”

“I love you. And I would court you if I could. I _will_ court you as you deserve,” he said fervently. 

Bilbo kissed him one last time. “Of course you will, you old romantic. Well, I’ll do the same for you—I hope you’re fond of flower wreaths. They’re all the rage in Hobbitsh courtships.”

“I look forward to it,” Thorin promised. He rested a hand against Bilbo’s cheek.

“I will leave you to your rest for now. I would stay with you all day and night, but I promised to return to my duties as soon as I could.”

“Yes, yes, go off and be king for a while. You’ve certainly waited long enough for it,” Bilbo said, waving a hand. Thorin knocked their foreheads together for a moment, then took his leave. 

Bilbo sank bonelessly into his desk chair. “That went well, all things considered,” he muttered to himself. He allowed himself a moment to bask in his newly-regained happiness and returned to his paperwork and cold porridge, feeling quite optimistic indeed.

—

Bilbo opened his door that afternoon, thinking to pop into the kitchen for a snack now that his daily nausea had thankfully retreated into the realm of memory. He was greeted by a pair of princes, arms raised to knock. His hellos were cut off when they each grabbed one of his elbows and marched off down the hallway.

“What happened after we left?” Kili demanded, pulling Bilbo into an empty hallway. It was one of the many destroyed by Smaug. Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “Must we discuss this here? It still smells of dragon.”

Fili ignored him and said, “I haven’t seen Uncle this happy since….you know what, I’ve never seen him this happy in my entire life. He’s been swanning around the castle with hearts in his eyes since this morning. I think he would skip if his leg wasn’t in such a bad way.”

“So what happened?” Kili pressed. “Have you two finally admitted you carry a torch for each other?”

Bilbo pressed his lips together to stop himself from grinning. Were they really so oblivious as that? Kili interpreted his silence the wrong way.

“Don’t think we didn’t notice the way you two were mooning over each other the whole trip! You would have cut the tension between you two with one of Fili’s axes.”

Bilbo smothered a laugh inside a cough. “I heard your mother is coming in on a caravan in a few months. Are you excited to see her?” 

“Don’t change the subject!” Fili cried, throwing his arms up. 

At the same time, Kili groaned, “don’t remind me. She’ll kill Thorin for putting us in so much danger, then kill us for nearly dying in battle, and then she’ll kill anyone else in the vicinity, just because!”

“Parents will do anything for their children,” Bilbo said, a bit loftily.

“We know,” Fili said, looking at him oddly. Bilbo was saved from his questioning as Bifur ran by. He skidded to a stop, backpedaled, and stopped in front of their little party. He signed something too quickly for Bilbo to catch with his limited vocabulary. Kili nodded. “Uncle wants to see you, Bilbo, along with Fili. Not me, of course. Naturally.”

“Stop your whining,” Bilbo said, thumping the back of his head gently. “Any more dramatic and you’ll turn into your uncle.”

Fili shuddered. “I forbid you from turning into Thorin, brother mine. Quick now, Bilbo, we better go see what’s happening. We don’t want to ruin his good mood so soon after it began.”

“I suppose we can bring Kili along, as long as he promises to behave himself,” Bilbo teased. Kili stuck out his tongue, and Bilbo returned the offense. 

—

Thorin met them in a council room. It was large but empty, aside from Thorin, who was scribbling on a bit of parchment. He nodded at them both as they entered. When he had finished, he set aside the paper and quill and stood to greet his guests.

“Nephews, could you run and fetch Balin? He should be in the library. We’ll only need a moment of his time.”

Fili and Kili groaned good-naturally but did as they were told.

Once the boys were out of earshot, Thorin said, “With your permission, I would like to address the problem of the succession with Fili.”

“Oh yes, right. Should I stay?”

“I would have you by my side always. But yes, you will need to be present, as this concerns you as well.”

He stepped around the large stone table and reached out. Bilbo walked to him willingly, threading his hands through his hair, which was down and free from braids, for once. It must be tricky to braid his hair with one arm immobilized as it was. Maybe he would let Bilbo help him later.

“So. The succession?” Bilbo asked. “Moving quickly, aren’t we? The poor dear hasn’t even been born yet.”

“It must be done, my heart. The sooner the better, for change happens slowly in a kingdom.”

The door opened and they drew apart, trying their best not to look like two tweens who had been caught necking behind a house.

Thankfully, Balin was the first through the door, and though he waggled his bushy eyebrows, he decided not to comment on how close they were standing.

“Come, Fili, we have something important to discuss,” Thorin said. He took Bilbo’s hand discretely and gave it a gentle squeeze. Kili, following behind Fili, glanced quickly between Thorin and Bilbo’s hand, then to Bilbo, who had one hand resting on his stomach quite without knowing.

“Mahal’s balls….” he breathed. “Mahal’s _hairy balls,_ Bilbo, you’re _pregnant_?”

Bilbo winced but nodded, both surprised and pleased at Kili’s quick thinking. Thorin sighed.

“Well, Kili, now that you’ve invited yourself into this conversation, you might as well stay.”

“Sorry, Uncle,” Kili said sheepishly. 

“It is alright. We would have had to tell you eventually, and this will save us time.”

“That’s wonderful!” Fili exclaimed. “Congratulations, you two!” He looked as though he might dance around the room with happiness. “Kee, isn’t this great? There hasn’t been a royal baby in ages! Mahal’s beard, we’re gonna be _uncles!_ Well, not exactly. Close enough!”

“Congratulations,” Kili said, still looking a bit sheepish for his outburst, but no less happy than his brother.

“So what’s this meeting about, Uncle?” Fili asked, sitting down at the table. Thorin, Kili, Bilbo, and Balin all followed suit. From Balin’s non-reaction, Bilbo was sure Thorin had told him earlier. As if he could hear his thoughts, Balin caught Bilbo’s eye, his own eyes shining. “Well done, you two. I can’t think of a better pair of fathers for the future monarch.”

“Which brings us to the point of this meeting. We need to discuss the succession,” Thorin said.

“Hmm?” Fili said, pulling himself out of what was likely a thorough daydream about his future as an uncle. “Oh, right. I’ll name the baby my heir, no problem—Kili, you can go kiss an Orc if you have a problem with it. Hell, I’ll even give the little guy my throne first, if that’s what you want.”

“Actually, I was hoping that the baby could be placed further down the line, if at all. We Hobbits aren’t really meant to be leaders,” Bilbo said. 

Fili snorted. “You forget the kid will be half Dwarf, and a Durin to boot. Besides, you ran this mountain pretty well all on your lonesome.”

Bilbo shook his head. “Those were unusual circumstances. I was just doing what needed to be done. It’s not like I was the king.”

“But you _are_ a king—Prince Consort, at least, once Uncle declares you to the court.”

There was a short pause as everyone in the room absorbed that. Balin cleared his throat awkwardly.

Fili wheeled to face a red-faced Thorin. “Uncle! Did you knock him up and _not_ ask him to marry you?”

“It’s….there’s been a lot going on! I only just found out! I am planning on courting him _properly,_ nephew.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Kili snickered.

Thorin turned his thunderous glare to Kili, who attempted to hide behind Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Shall we get on with it, then?” Balin asked, ever the diplomat. He pulled the parchment towards him and looked expectantly at Fili, pen poised and ready.

“Fine,” Fili said, looking gleeful to finally have ammunition to use against his uncle. “The baby, when it arrives, will be the heir to my heir, after Prince Kili, son of Dis. The succession now stands as thus—Thorin Oakenshield, king under the mountain; myself, Prince Fili, son of Dis; my brother, the aforementioned prince; and finally the unborn child of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins. There. Are we good now?”

Balin scribbled down the words, signed, and pushed the pen towards Fili. He signed as well, and then Thorin, and finally, Kili. 

Thorin said, “That will suffice. Leave now, and try not to tell the whole mountain. We’ll do it our own time.”

“I’m sure you will,” Kili singsonged. He winked at Bilbo, flashed a smile at his uncle, and dragged his brother out of the room. From down the hall, Bilbo heard him call, “Hey, Ori! Guess what we just found out!”

Bilbo turned to Thorin, arms crossed. “So. Prince Consort.”

From further down the hall, Fili squawked, “What do you _mean_ you already knew?”

Thorin buried his face in his hands.

—

That night, Bilbo was faced with the conundrum of where to sleep. During the journey, he had slept as far from the Dwarves as he could at first, partially due to his need for personal space and partially in hopes of keeping his secret. Then Thorin had approached him after the Carrok and asked to know him better—much better. After that, he slept as near to Thorin as he could, oftentimes sharing the same bedroll. He knew his place, and it was tucked against Thorin’s side, feeling him snore. They had slept together, in many senses of the word, through the whole journey, up until the gold sickness kept Thorin from Bilbo’s bed, and then cast Bilbo from his side—but he didn’t want to dwell on that. 

The rooms he had been staying in since the battle were very nice—roomy, comfortable, and quite beautiful. But Bilbo tossed and turned in that great big empty bed. And now that Thorin was healed and his, Bilbo felt he was entitled to snuggling up next to him for a night. There were two problems, however: Balin had slipped him a quickly-translated book on Dwarven courting etiquette. Rule number one was no unsupervised conduct until at least stage three of the courting, which took months to get to. Bilbo remembered the feel of Thorin’s impatient hands on him that first night together and snorted. That rule would not last three months, that much was certain. The second was that he had no idea where Thorin was staying now that he was out of the infirmary. And that wasn't the sort of thing you could ask the Dwarf in charge of housing, because that would _not_ be anyone’s first impression of Bilbo. He had his reputation to uphold, after all.

So instead he left his rooms to wander the halls and hope to run into Thorin at some point. Luck was not on his side, because though he trotted his way through half the mountain, he hardly saw anyone, let alone the king. Of course, he was probably busy doing kingly things. Bilbo just wished he could do kingly things _closer to him._ Tired and annoyed, Bilbo returned to his own rooms—to find Thorin sitting at his desk, quill in hand.

“Good evening,” Thorin said, setting down his pen instantly and rising to greet Bilbo with a lingering kiss. Bilbo returned the kiss easily but pulled away. He cocked his head to the side. “What are you doing here, Thorin? We aren’t supposed to be alone together, according to the rules of Dwarvish courting conduct I read this evening.”

“We nearly died, my love. We deserve to bend the rules a bit. Besides, I’m not in your rooms. You’re in my rooms.”

Bilbo spluttered. “Excuse me!”

Thorin smiled, gesturing at the wall behind the bed. “That symbol—it’s the crest of Durin. I hope it has been agreeable to you.”

“Why—yes, it was. Uh, is. I just…I guess I thought the king’s apartments would be…grander? It’s lovely of course, but not exactly….kingly.”

Thorin nodded. “Yes, this is a royal apartment, but only barely. The Royal Family Suite was badly damaged. It’s still being restored. This is the only royal room that was habitable.”

“And they gave it me?” Bilbo said. Thorin shrugged. 

“Aside from my unobservant nephews, most of the Company knew we were together. It’s only natural they would allocate you this room.”

“Even though I was technically _banished_?”

“Well…we are technically….married?”

“ _What?_ ”

Thorin winced. “ _Technically._ When I gave you the mithril chainmail in full view of my subjects—including my heirs and advisors—it was a marriage of sorts. Or at least, it was an agreement of marriage. If I had fallen in battle, the Company would have known who to turn to for leadership.”

“Is _that_ why everyone wanted me to make decisions and sign treaties?” Bilbo squawked. He took a deep, calming breath. Dwarves—they would be the death of him, one way or another. “Why didn’t you tell me? I should like to know when I’m getting married!”

“I did mean to tell you, but I thought you would reject the chainmail. I did not want you to go into battle without its protection.”

“I’m a touch more reasonable than that, Thorin. You should have just asked me. I would have said yes.”

Thorin looked thunderstruck. “You would have?”

Bilbo threw up his arms. “Of course! That’s what I’m doing now, isn’t it? Saying yes?”

“I—I suppose so.” 

Thorin still looked baffled, and Bilbo smiled fondly, shaking his head. “Oh, you are lucky you’re pretty, my great daft Dwarf.”

“Yes, yours. Now and always,” Thorin replied softly.

Bilbo wrapped his arms around Thorin’s body, leaning into his chest for a long moment. He breathed in the warmth and the smell of him, and thanked his lucky stars. He felt the rumble of Thorin’s voice against his cheek when he said, “on the bright side, we will be able to skip the heart of our courtship, since you have both received and accepted a masterwork from me—though that chainmail was not crafted by my own hands. I will, of course, make you another masterwork myself.”

“Of course you will,” Bilbo sighed. “Now about this room—not that this isn’t lovely, but I would have a little more space once the wee one arrives. Hobbits have a bit of a nesting instinct, I’m afraid.” 

Thorin tilted his head, considering. “Restoration should take a while yet, as there are more important things to attend to. It will likely be another month, maybe more.”

“Hmm, alright. Until then, perhaps I can think of some ways to pass the time.” 

He tugged Thorin closer by his belt. 

“I think I like where this is going, my burglar,” Thorin rumbled. Then, without warning, he scooped Bilbo up and deposited him on the bed. 

“Hold on,” Bilbo gasped as Thorin descended on his throat, kissing and nuzzling his way down. 

“What is it, my love? It’s been too long since I have had you in my arms. I would have you tonight again if that is what you want.”

“Oh, yes, definitely. But Thorin, I have to pee so badly and you’re laying on my bladder.”

Thorin pulled back, the curtain of his hair falling around his face. He huffed dramatically but shifted his weight to let Bilbo wiggle out from under him. When he returned from the attached bathroom, Thorin had changed into a sleep shift and held a smaller one for Bilbo. He offered it up and Bilbo took it cautiously. He stepped out of his clothes a touch self-consciously. It had been a while since Thorin had seen him naked, and often it was in the dark, or in very low light. The road was not the most romantic place for a budding relationship, but it had done well enough. Now, though, the lamps blazed brightly on the walls, leaving no room for shadows to conceal. Thorin’s eyes roamed over him hungrily, but he made no move to touch him. 

“How far along are you?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on Bilbo’s bare stomach. Bilbo clucked awkwardly, glancing down and sucking in his gut.

“Not enough to see, I’m afraid. That’s just a bit of weight I’ve picked up again.”

Thorin nodded, finally stepping closer. “You look healthy, my heart. Strong and soft and…mine.” He punctuated each word with a kiss—on his neck, his chest, his stomach. Bilbo shivered, both from the scruff of Thorin’s beard and from the chill in the air. Bilbo’s sleep shirt fell, forgotten, to the floor, as Thorin picked Bilbo up and once more carried him to the bed. Thorin’s shirt quickly joined it there, where it stayed for the remainder of the night. As cold as the mountain was at night, it was much more bearable wrapped in the arms of the king. 

—

Erebor’s kitchens were a wonder in and of themselves, and Bilbo became quite familiar with them as the month progressed. His long-neglected stomach seemed to be demanding penance for all the meals he’d missed since the warm summer day he first stepped out of his cozy Hobbit hole. Which, come to think of it, was quite a few meals.

Bilbo often found himself seated at a small table set in a corner of the bustling kitchen. The dwarves working there knew to drop off odd jobs to keep his hands busy (when he wasn’t writing or doing paperwork) and odds and ends of their cooking to keep him pacified. It seemed only an hour or so after he finished a Hobbit-sized meal, his stomach would growl once more. He ate roughly as much as two Hobbits by himself, which Thorin reminded him was because he was.

Whenever a kitchen dwarf had a moment, they would wander over to Bilbo’s table to peak at his work. He was sketching out plans for a garden, come spring. There were a few parts of the mountain that were reasonably protected from the harsh winds, but still got a decent amount of sunshine. With the proper preparations—and a Hobbit’s touch—Bilbo was confident he could coax a respectable vegetable patch or two out of the old mountain. The farms surrounding the base of the mountain would grow a good deal of food, and they traded for what they could not grow, but Bilbo knew he would feel much better if he could be in charge of a few dozen potato plants and a handful of carrots. And some flowers.

It would have to wait, of course, as it was still decidedly winter on the mountain. Bilbo was rather unused to the constant chill that came from living inside a mountain, and so was always thoroughly bundled up in furs and a variety of colorful knits, and had a hot drink in hand more often than not.

Bilbo’s heart ached for his Bag End, of course, and it always would, but here he was comfortable and content. So here he stayed. 

Currently, he was passing the time until Nomi called him in for a checkup. It had been a few weeks since the King had been released from the infirmary, and a few weeks since Bilbo had a moment to spare for the already-hurried healer. He kicked his heels idly against the table legs as he sketched away. Dwarven furniture was quite more his size than that of Elves or Men, but still just a bit bigger than Hobbitish stuff. He spent a good deal of time with his feet swinging a few inches from the floor. At that moment, Ori came bobbing through the door.

“Hullo, Ori. Did Nomi send you?” 

“She did. Up you get, Master Hobbit.”

Ori lent Bilbo his hand, which Bilbo took gratefully. Bombur stopped his hustling around long enough to help Bilbo pack up his papers and stick them in a drawer for later.

“Stop in a bit later, lad, and we’ll have some ‘o that carrot cake ready. You can tell me how badly we’ve mucked up your great-aunt’s recipe.”

“I have no doubt it will be perfect, as usual.”

Bombur took Bilbo’s arm, holding him back. “You’ll be sure to tell us what’s going on with you soon, aye? The lads are getting worried.”

Bilbo pressed his lips together. “Soon, Bombur. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, or no more afternoon cakes for you, hungry Hobbit.”

“A most effective threat,” Bilbo said, smiling to let his friend know he meant it.

Nomi was waiting just outside the door. She wasted no time in ushering Bilbo through the busy halls of Erebor to the infirmary.

“Pants and shirt off, please. Leave your underthings on,” she said shortly once they were safely inside a small private room with a cot in the corner, and turned her back to give him a bit of privacy. Bilbo frowned a bit at her tone—she sounded quite put off. He’d only ever seen her smile the once. The rest of the time, she looked vaguely angry. Maybe that was just how her face was. It had taken a month of traveling with Thorin to realize he wasn’t angry so much as focused much of the time. As Bilbo slipped out of his clothes, he said, “Is everything alright, Nomi? Forgive me for saying, but you seem unhappy.”

“Hmm? On the contrary, Master Hobbit, this is the highlight of my day.”

“The highlight of your day is poking at a fat Hobbit’s tummy?” he asked skeptically, laying down on the bed. She came over, cracking her knuckles and shaking out her hands. 

“Would it surprise you if I said yes? I spend most of my day coaxing health from a war-torn and long-abused mountain of Dwarves. Having a mo’ to investigate a new life blooming is a treasure indeed. I always enjoy my maternity cases, and this one is more interesting than most,” she said. Her hands, softer than most Dwarves’, framed noticeable bump of Bilbo’s tummy. Bilbo had no idea how she claimed to feel the baby with just her bare hands, but he’d long given up on questioning the methods of Dwarves. Besides, she seemed to know what was doing. She stuck a trumpet in her ear, much like the one Oin used to hear, and rested the bell against his stomach to listen to….something. Apparently everything was in order, because she gave his hand a comforting pat as she straightened up again.

“The wee one is a bit bigger than expected, but that’s no worry at all,” she assured Bilbo. He frowned, however, sitting up and pulling a shirt on.

“Are you sure? I’m almost five months, more than halfway, and I remember my neighbor Petty was a sight bigger than I am when she was this far along. But then Proudfoots—Proudfeet?—well, they always did have large babies. Matched their large personalities, my mum used to say.”

Nomi stared at him.

“What do you mean you’re past the halfway point?” she asked, something akin to panic in her eyes.

“Ah…because I am? Hobbits give birth at seven months. Don’t Dwarves?”

“Mahal’s beard, _no._ Dwarves carry for twelve months.”

_“Twelve?”_ Bilbo shrieked. He took a calming breath. “Now I believe I understand the low birth rate. Twelve months is…I can’t even imagine being pregnant for twelve months.”

Nomi said apologetically, “Well, you might have to, Master Hobbit. You’re the first person in written memory to carry a half-Dwarf, half-Hobbit child. I suppose it was wrong of me to assume your body would take a Dwarfish approach to childbearing. It’d be quite unnatural for you, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Bilbo said, a bit shakily. Twelve months…..he shuddered.

“But you said the baby was bigger. Maybe my body will split the difference.”

“Maybe,” Nomi mused. She tapped her fingers against the table thoughtfully. “Yes, maybe. Mister Baggins, let’s add another checkup a week to your schedule, shall we? With that in mind, I’d like to keep a closer eye on you.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Bilbo said, trying not to show how nervous he was. It had occurred to him that Dwarf-Hobbit children couldn’t be common, but the first? There was so much uncertainty to being the first in anything.

“Don’t fret. You and the babe will be delivered safely or I won’t be worthy of these braids.” 

She tugged on the thick braids, heavy with beads, that hung from either side of her face and tied themselves neatly into her beard. “However, since you’ll be further along than I expected, you best make your announcements soon, aye?” she said with a touch of gentle ribbing in her voice. Bilbo rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Yes, yes, I best.”

—

Bilbo woke up early the next morning, before dawn, and carefully wiggled himself out of bed to freshen himself. When he came back, Thorin was yawning and stretching contentedly on the bed.

“Good morning, my heart. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, quite,” Bilbo replied. He considered the sleep-muddled Dwarf’s big, tired eyes for a moment longer. He let himself get pulled back into bed for an early-morning cuddle. They had until the sun rose to spend together, before Thorin got pulled back into his duties and Bilbo sought out company and his own work.

Without warning, a strange feeling shuddered through Bilbo. He sat up, pushing away from Thorin. He steadied himself against the headboard.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asked. His hand latched onto Bilbo’s wrist. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” Bilbo said faintly. “Hush, just a moment, let me….”

He sat extremely still, waiting. The feeling came again, like fluttering or shivering in his stomach. He put Thorin’s hand against his middle. “Do you feel it?” he asked.

Thorin slowly shook his head. “Is it the baby?”

Bilbo nodded. “I can feel something—just faintly, I think. I can feel the baby moving.” He laughed a little hysterically. “I—Thorin, I wish you could feel this, it’s the strangest thing in the world—”

He laughed again and Thorin did too. 

“It’s so silly, Thorin, but…this is the first time it’s felt real. The baby is _moving._ ”

“I wish I could feel,” Thorin said. Bilbo put his hand over Thorin’s.

“Patience, dear. Let the lad get a bit bigger and stronger first.” 

They sat in quiet for a while, Bilbo lost to the feeling of his baby finally moving inside him, and Thorin to watching Bilbo’s face. Slowly, Bilbo’s expression sobered.

“What’s bothering you?” Thorin asked. “Are you uncomfortable? Do you hurt?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It just…occurred to me, I suppose.”

“What did?” Thorin asked. 

“That this is really happening. I’m growing already, and soon I’m going to start showing in earnest. Everyone will know.”

“I will be announcing you as my intended consort within the week—it won’t be any sort of scandal for you to show proof of our union.”

Bilbo looked up, a little surprised at Thorin’s assumption. He shrugged. “Ori mentioned you had concerns.”

“Ah, yes, well. That’s not it. There are no Hobbits around to scandalize and I would not care if there were.”

“Then what is it?”

Bilbo sighed through his nose, looking down at their intertwined hands. He chewed on his lip, trying to think of the best way to say it. 

“In the Shire,” he started, then shook his head. He started again. “Dwarves are very unlike Hobbits.”

“That we are, my love,” Thorin said good-naturedly. His large hand rested against Bilbo’s back, rubbing small, comforting circles. 

“Let me build up to this, Thorin. It isn’t easy for me to talk about.”

Thorin’s hand stilled. “Oh. Is this about you being Changed?”

Bilbo’s silence gave him the answer he needed. 

“Bilbo, you know that you belong here. No one will treat you with disdain for who you are.”

“That’s not—thank you, but that’s not what I’m worried about. Dwarves—you lot are better at being respectful about it than Hobbits are. But I’d guess that it’s because I’m wearing trousers rather than a skirt.”

“How do you mean?” Thorin asked, his brow crinkled adorably, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom what Bilbo was saying.

“I mean that all the Dwarves I’ve met see me as male because that’s how I dress. Once I start showing, well. Dwarves are bound to assume.”

“Assume,” Thorin repeated. “Assume what? That you are female because you carry a child? Is…is that how Hobbits see things?” He sounded horrified.

“Unfortunately. Many would see me as female because I was born that way. Many have, and still do, no matter how I dress or what I look like,” Bilbo admitted. “It’s been nice, you know, being around people who don’t make assumptions about me.”

“I would not speak badly of your people, Bilbo,” Thorin said in a voice that implied he was trying very hard not to.

“It wouldn’t bother me any,” Bilbo said, a touch more glibly than he felt. “I find I much prefer the company of Dwarves now-a-days.”

“I think I have a solution,” Thorin said suddenly. He scooted closer to Bilbo, drawing him onto his lap so Bilbo’s back was to Thorin’s chest.

His deft fingers knitted a complex braid into the longest part of Bilbo’s hair. His hair wasn’t as long as any Dwarf’s, but still far longer than it had been at the start of this journey. It hadn’t been this long since before, when he still wore the long hair of a young Hobbit lass. It was one thing he truly missed. But in the Shire, male Hobbits had short hair. Bilbo wasn’t about to go breaking that rule, not when he struggled to be seen as he was. Here among Dwarves, though, he let his hair grow, sound in the knowledge that everyone kept their hair this long or longer, regardless of gender. Every once in a while, the fall of his hair brought back flashes of his old self, the lass he had been so miserable as when he was young. But then Thorin would run his fingers through Bilbo’s hair or one of the Company would offer to braid it, and Bilbo remembered why he let his hair grow out again.

Thorin made quick work of the braid. Bilbo shook his head a few times to get used to the weight, added to by a simple clasp Thorin had used to tie off the end.

“There. Once I announce you as my consort, you may wear this braid. It will mark you as an expecting father. You will not have to fear Dwarves making incorrect assumptions. Even if you paraded about naked, no Dwarf would mistake you for a female.”

“I don’t think I’d go quite as far as that,” Bilbo demurred, blushing at the thought. He caught Thorin’s hand and pressed it to his lips. “But thank you, Thorin.”

Thorin tucked the braid behind Bilbo’s ear, kissing the soft skin behind it. 

“Anytime, my love.”

—

Thorin was kind enough to give his Company a five-minute warning of Bilbo’s condition before announcing their engagement to the Dwarven court. If Bilbo had his way, he would have broken the news over a private dinner, at least a day in advance, but Thorin assured him it was best for everyone to do it this way. This way, at least, no one could accidentally spill the news in their collective excitement. 

And excitement there was sure to be, in the little antechamber just off the throne room. It was a bit too small for the whole Company, but they had been in tighter squeezes before. Bilbo fiddled with his shirt hem—they’d taken out the braid, lest the news get out before they wanted, and Bilbo had practiced it on himself so often that his fingers itched for something to do. 

Thorin raised his hand for silence. It fell quickly, and he inclined his head toward Bilbo. 

“I said I have an announcement for you all. But I think I should leave that honor to our burglar,” he said. Bilbo took a bracing breath, stepping in front of his unconventional family. Telling the family was a right of passage for Hobbits, and one he never thought he’d have the opportunity for. It felt right, somehow, to be doing it here and now, with these people in front of him. Not a Sackville-Baggins in sight. He almost smiled to imagine the look on Lobelia’s face if she knew what juicy gossip she was missing.

“So what’s the big news, lad?” Dwalin asked gruffly. Kili and Fili were practically bouncing on their toes, bursting with anticipation and pride. A glance at them and Thorin was enough to steady Bilbo’s nerves.

“Thorin is about to announce our engagement to the court,” he began, and the room erupted into cheers.

“Wait, wait!” Bilbo shouted. “That’s not the news!” 

No one listened to him. Money changed hands several times. Bilbo crossed his arms and tapped his foot, waiting for the hubbub to die down. He narrowed his eyes at Ori, who was chuckling behind his hand. Ori lowered his hand and mouthed, “just get on with it.”

“ _Listen to me! There’s more news!_ ” Bilbo insisted.

Again, no one paid him any mind. He took a deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, “I’m pregnant!”

Silence, sudden and nearly complete, fell in the tiny room. In the corner, Fili and Kili were trying (and failing) to muffle their delighted laughter. 

“Thank you. Now that I have your attention,” Bilbo sniffed, a bit put off. Thorin huffed a small laugh and put his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “And you call me dramatic,” he murmured. Bilbo clucked his tongue. 

“I wouldn’t have to _be_ dramatic if anyone listened to me in the first place.”

“Sorry lad,” Dwalin said, the first to recover his voice. “I think I just heard you wrong. I could have sworn you said you were pregnant.”

“I am,” Bilbo said, thumbs tucked jauntily into his vest pockets. 

He rocked back on his heels at the wall of sheer _noise_ that hit him like a physical thing. Cheers and congratulations echoed around the too-small space, and Bilbo saw more than one tear shed. He smiled fondly. Sappy, the lot of them. Bofur approached and gripped Bilbo’s hand tightly. 

“Greatest congratulations from all of us,” he said. “If I may be presumptuous enough to ask, would you accept me as your keeper?”

“Hey, no fair,” Fili said. “I was just about to ask him that!”

“Aye, and why should _you_ be his keeper?” Bofur asked, dropping Bilbo’s hand and stalking toward his prince. “You’re barely within your majority, there’s no way you could keep a child. I’m a much better choice.”

“The baby is going to be my blood! I have a greater claim than you!” Fili insisted.

Ori stepped between them. “There’s no need to fight, fellows,” he said proudly. “Bilbo already picked me.”

The other two regarded Ori silently, looking thunderous. Bilbo was almost nervous for him, but both relaxed marginally after only a few seconds.

“Well, if Bilbo already made his choice,” Fili muttered, and at the same time, Bofur said, “Ori will do as well as any, I suppose.”

As one, they turned to Bilbo and bowed. “We’re at your service, as always,” Bofur said. “Sorry we got nasty for a moment there.”

“It’s quite alright, boys,” Bilbo said. “But you better be first in line to volunteer to babysit, once the baby arrives.”

“The poor bastard will have more family than they’ll know what to do with,” Bofur promised him, and hugged him.

And then every Dwarf wanted a hug. They ended in a bit of an upright group cuddle, but that was just fine by Bilbo. 

“I’m not usually this emotional. It’s the baby that’s making me cry,” he grumbled, swiping at his eyes.

“Ah, just admit you love us, there’s no shame in that,” Gloin said jovially.

“Yes, I do,” Bilbo sighed. Thorin kissed the top of his head.

“Let’s go, my jewel. We’ve a kingdom to tell before this lot gets around to it.” 

—

After that, announcing it to the court was easy, and, being honest, it was a relief. At least now he didn’t have to sneak out of his and Thorin’s room every morning like a guilty teen visiting his first sweetheart. There were naysayers, of course there were. Not every Dwarf was pleased that their king had chosen a lowly Hobbit as his partner. But nearly all respected Thorin’s choice, or were at least quiet about their disapproval.

True to his word, Thorin courted Bilbo thoroughly and extravagantly. Bilbo now had more hair clasps than he could wear, more rings and bracelets and necklaces than he could shake a walking stick at. Bilbo, for his part, managed to cultivate just enough camellias in the acidic, dry mountain soil to weave Thorin a flower crown. Bilbo swore up and down that by the time of his and Thorin’s wedding, Thorin would be more flower than Dwarf, the way that Bilbo was currently more jewelry than Hobbit.

The king wore the flimsy flower crown until it wilted and dried, too delicate to touch, let alone wear. Thorin kept it in a glass chest to display it. Bilbo told him that he could throw it out, that flowers were meant to be admired and left to rest, but Thorin refused to throw away anything Bilbo’s hands made. 

—

Two months after the public announcement, more excitement came to Erebor in the form of a caravan from the Blue Mountains. The two young princes had been vibrating out of their skins with excitement and nerves to see their mother again.

They had taken to following Bilbo around, trying to shake off their fears by chattering constantly. Kili sat on the table next to Bilbo during his weekly check-in with Nomi, nervously drumming his heels.

“I love my mother, of course,” he said for the tenth time this week. “But damn if I’m not terrified of her. She’s like Thorin, you know, but if Thorin was actually scary instead of mildly intimidating.”

“She sounds like an interesting lady. I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Bilbo said, also for the tenth time.

“Well, not long to wait,” Nomi said calmly. “I saw them yesterday afternoon, far off in the distance. Not more than a few hours away, I’d say. After I finish up with you, Prince Consort, I’ll be heading out. My wife is in that caravan and I plan to meet the caravan halfway up the mountain. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen them.”

Bilbo smiled at the wistful note in Nomi’s voice. “I wish you a happy reunion,” he said. Nomi smiled, brightening her serious face.

“Many thanks. Now, I believe you’re done for today. Growing nicely, you are!” She patted his middle. 

“Any idea on the due date?” Bilbo asked. Nomi grimaced.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Better, in fact.”

Bilbo sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“What matters is that you’re healthy,” Nomi reminded him.

“Hey! I’m having a crisis over here,” Kili whined.

“You’re fine, Kili,” Thorin said, appearing the doorway. “And your mother is waiting for you. The caravan just arrived.”

Kili turned deathly pale. Bilbo chuckled and knocked his shoulder against Kili’s. 

“You’ll survive. Come on, I’ll go with you.”

They both started for the door, but were rather rudely knocked out of the way by Nomi. She stopped just in the doorframe, blushing. “Prince Kili, Prince Consort. I apologize.”

Bilbo waved his hand. “It’s fine. Go see your wife, Nomi!” 

She nodded her thanks and disappeared. 

“Stop your glowering, Thorin,” Bilbo said, prodding the wrinkle of Thorin’s frown with his thumb. Thorin’s face relaxed instantly.

“Her family is here, my love, that’s a cause for celebration. And an excuse for a little rudeness.”

“You’re right,” Thorin said. He slipped his hand into Bilbo’s. They followed Kili’s nervous trotting at a more leisurely pace, but Bilbo wasn’t fooled—he could feel the tension thrumming through Thorin’s body. He was just as nervous as his nephews were and Bilbo knew there was no cure for it but to see Dis again.

Fili was waiting for them at the entrance the palace. He latched onto his brother and together they ran for the gates. Thorin tugged Bilbo’s hand, pulling him to a stop before they could step outside.

“What’s wrong, Thorin? Don’t you want to see her?” Bilbo asked. 

“Dis is my sister, and nearly all the family I have left. But she is Fili and Kili’s mother first. I would not stand in the way of their reunion.”

Bilbo squeezed Thorin’s hand in silent understanding and tugged him out into the sunlight.

All around them, families and friends reunited. Laughter rang out from every corner and tears flowed freely. It made Bilbo’s chest warm and hold Thorin’s hand all the tighter. This was the largest caravan to arrive at Erebor, and it would be the largest for a while yet. It was a well-earned moment of chaos.

Among the noise, Bilbo heard a loud gasp and turned to see a Dwarf with dark hair bound up in traveling braids and a familiar noble face. Fili and Kili launched themselves at their mother. She stumbled back under their weight, clinging tightly to them.

“Mum,” Kili sobbed. “Mum, I almost died, Fili almost died!”

“I know, my boys, my brave boys,” Dis murmured, an arm tucked around each of them. She kissed Fili’s golden hair and Kili’s wrinkled forehead. “And don’t think you won’t get a talking-to about that later, my stupid, reckless sons. But for now, all I care is that you’re safe and you’re here.”

“It’s so good to see you, Mum,” Fili said shakily. He leaned his temple against his mother’s. “It’s been so, so long.”

Bilbo blinked back tears. He leaned into Thorin’s side, letting Thorin’s weight and warmth keep him steady. Thorin rested his cheek against Bilbo’s head. Together, they watched Fili and Kili try to catch their mother up on over a year’s worth of news in the span of a few minutes. She laughed and talked over them, adding to the confusion with her gorgeous voice, smooth where Thorin’s was rough but just as deep.

Then, Bilbo caught his name in the deluge that poured from Fili and Kili’s mouths. He blinked in surprise. Dis straightened up a little, her mouth forming a question. Fili and Kili answered in tandem, hands waving and gesturing until they landed on Bilbo. Dis’ head snapped around, locking onto Bilbo and Thorin. Her mouth dropped open.

“Thorin?” she said.

“Hello, Dis,” Thorin said. His grip on Bilbo’s hand tightened. Bilbo let him squeeze away, remembering the night they’d gotten news that Dis was on her way to the mountain. How Thorin had trembled with fear, with guilt and shame for putting her children in danger. How much he blamed himself and worried she would blame him too.

Bilbo stepped forward into the silence between the two siblings, tugging his hand free to sketch a bow at her.

“Hello, Lady Dis. Mister Baggins, at your service.” 

Dis tore her eyes from her brother’s face. “I—hello. Ah—at your service as well, I suppose. I’m sorry, I missed your name.”

“Bilbo Baggins, formerly of Bag End,” Bilbo said with a bow. He tugged at his vest to straighten it—he’d had to leave it hanging open, this past month. He was big enough to pop the buttons now, and Ori still hadn’t gotten around to finding him some suitable child-bearing clothes. Bilbo continued, “Master burglar, if it pleases you. Friend of the Dwarves of Erebor, one of the Company. Barrel-rider, though that’s not my best title. Prince Consort, but that will have to wait until after the coronation.”

“Prince Consort—Mahal’s beard, _Thorin!”_ Dis snapped, turning back to her brother. He shuffled his feet, looking nothing like his usual kingly self.

“Yes, sister?”

“I believe you might have forgotten to mention _something_ in your last letter! Thorin!”

“Maybe a couple somethings,” Fili snickered. He nodded toward Bilbo. “Or did he mention that you’re going to be an aunt?”

Dis got very still and very, very quiet, eyes fastening on Bilbo’s expecting-father braid, tied off with a bead bearing Thorin’s personal crest. It was a bit like the moment of silence before a thunder strike, Bilbo thought. Thorin looked very nervous indeed.

“Now, Dis, before you kill me—” Thorin said hurriedly.

“Oh, hush,” Dis said. She hugged him tightly. He held her like he was afraid to let go.

“I missed you,” Thorin admitted. 

“I missed you too.” 

Dis and Thorin both sniffed, pulling away from each other and wiping their eyes in the synchronized way people who grew up together tended to do.

Dis cleared her throat. “So, let me meet this prince consort of yours. Bilbo, was it?” she asked.

She embraced him like she had Thorin, though more carefully. Bilbo said, “Yes, hello again. Your sons and brother have been like family to me. Well, I suppose they _are_ family, now.”

“As am I,” Dis said firmly. 

“So quickly?” Bilbo asked, surprised. It had taken more than a bow and a hug from the others to accept him. Dis chuckled. 

“Yes, well. I know my brother can be as dense and cold as the stone he was carved from, but he’s got a noble heart—and a good instincts, occasionally. If he chose you and you him, I can make no objections. My sons obviously adore you, too, and I trust their judgment.”

“I am glad to have you in my family. You would be a most welcome addition,” Bilbo said.

“It’s settled, then,” Dis said. She put an arm around each of her sons. “Now, then, show me around this mountain my family almost died for.”

They had a lot to catch up on—a lot of stories to tell. But there was time for that later. Thorin looked peaceful and settled in a way Bilbo had never seen. Fili and Kili looked bright and lively, even more than usual. Dis was shining with relief, and even though Bilbo had just met her, she looked twenty years younger than she had just ten minutes ago. Bilbo was feeling quite glowing, himself.

—

Pregnancy came with many side effects—hunger, strange cravings, melancholy mixed with excitement to make one exhausted Hobbit. But the worst and best of it was his need for touch. Many of his family hugged him regularly, because those were the sort of Dwarves they were, but he needed more than the occasional hug. He sought them out for more and more hugs, in which they gladly but amusedly indulged him. The hugs were nice but Bilbo craved something they couldn’t give him. He was needy for Thorin all the time, but the thought of Thorin seeing—or touching—his breasts, his hips, his privates, was enough to make him feel sick with wrongness. Sometimes the need for physical touch overruled his disgust of his own body, and he was fine. Other times, the disgust welled up at the most inopportune times. One night, a few weeks after Dis’ arrival, Bilbo halted their lovemaking with a barely-muffled sob, and the alarm on Thorin’s face was unlike any he’d ever seen.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? What did I do wrong?” he asked, cupping Bilbo’s face in his hands.

“No,” Bilbo sobbed. “You’re perfect, Thorin, and I’m the one who’s wrong.” 

Unable to keep his naked form in Thorin’s sight any longer, Bilbo snatched a fallen blanket and wrapped it around himself tightly. 

Thorin, at a loss, didn’t say anything, but studied Bilbo with dark, worried eyes. Bilbo swiped at his eyes angrily. When he’d gotten himself under control, he said, “the baby reminds me that my body is not what I want it to be.”

Thorin made a sympathetic sound deep in his throat, and that nearly reduced Bilbo to tears again. He pushed through them, saying, “It’s an honor to carry your child, Thorin. Of course it is. And I know in my heart that I am a male, no matter what state my body is in. But my mind is harder to convince—and it’s harder to ignore, currently. I cannot bind my breasts flat, I cannot ignore the movement of the baby. I look at myself and all I see is a Hobbit lass, almost upon her due date and a stranger in her body.”

Thorin deliberately held onto the bedsheets, as if to keep his hands from touching Bilbo. He said, “that is not what I see. I see a brave Hobbit, pushing past pain and discomfort for the sake of a child. I see a friend of Elves and a brother of Dwarves, a cunning diplomat and a prince of Erebor. I see a father and a husband, the best and strongest of his kind.”

Thorin’s voice slipped low and soft. “I see the most gorgeous creature in all the West. He wears my braids and holds my heart. He carries our child and the future of our people.” 

Bilbo dropped his head against Thorin’s shoulder, unable to look him in the eye any longer. Thorin’s hand combed through Bilbo’s hair. His voice a barely-audible rumble, he said, “I see that he is hurting, and it kills me. I know that he will get through this and come out better for it, but the here and now is difficult. I have faith in his never-ending strength of mind. I have faith in him.”

“ _He_ is never going to stop crying if you don’t hush,” Bilbo murmured wetly. Thorin kissed his temple, and Bilbo felt Thorin’s tears dripping into Bilbo’s hair.

“That’s alright. I have an abundance of handkerchiefs tucked away in the sock drawer. They’re meant to be a wedding gift, but I think he won’t mind.”

They both pulled on their clothes again—Thorin dug up one of the promised handkerchiefs—and they curled up in the middle of the bed. Bilbo tucked his chin over the crown of Thorin’s head and let out a deep sigh. Thorin sighed in reply, turning just enough to kiss Bilbo’s collarbone. They didn’t speak any more that night, each lost to their own sadness, but still together. 

If Bilbo thought he’d wake the next morning feeling more like himself, he was sorely disappointed. Morning came and he still felt like he wanted to shed his skin and wear another—the way he’d felt when his first stirrings came and he realized he was nothing like the other Hobbit lasses of the Shire. 

Most surprisingly, Fili was the one to break through Bilbo’s fog of despair. He said nothing outstanding, not like Thorin’s grand speech the night before. He simply sat himself next to Bilbo in the library and removed his shirt. His breasts were unbound, and though smaller than most Dwarves’, still a formidable presence. 

“Bound too tightly as a lad just into his first growths,” Fili said. Bilbo could tell it was an old grief, unworthy of upset any longer. “I’ve learned to value the health of my body over the discomfort of its wrongness, but it took me too long. I can hardly wear armor anymore, let alone bindings.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said. His hand rested against his stomach, suddenly craving the baby’s irregular kicks. Fili was in pain, just as he was. He hoped his own child would never know such pain.

“It is what it is,” Fili said quietly. They didn’t speak more after that. Fili worked on a bit of carving. Bilbo returned to his reading feeling a bit better about the state of his own body. The sharing of a burden eased it greatly, and Bilbo was gladder than ever this Dwarf was his nephew.

—

Now that the majority of the Blue Mountain Dwarves were back in Erebor, Thorin’s coronation was close at hand. He had been acting as king since the battle—before, actually—but the official coronation had been pushed back until the mountain was full again. And full it was, Bilbo noticed, the first time he attempted to get anywhere on his own. One Hobbit could easily be squished in the chaos of the palace hallways.

“Excuse me,” he said, trying to push his way through to his and Thorin’s chambers after an early second breakfast in the kitchens. 

“Excuse me!” he said a bit sharper. Normally, he’d never let his temper get the better of him with total strangers, but he was almost late to his fitting. A seamstress came with the Blue Mountains caravan and graciously offered to make Bilbo some new clothes that actually fit him, and he was quite eager.

“Eh?” the Dwarf in front of him said, turning. “Oh, sorry, lad, I didn’t see you there. Small, ain’t you?”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said, tapping his foot.

“Hang on a mo! Your beard says you can’t be more than a lad, but your braids say you're expecting.”

“Beardless I may be, but a child I am not,” Bilbo snapped. “Now if you don’t mind, let me pass. I’m late.”

“Ah, and a closer look tells me I’m a sight ruder than I first assumed. You’re the Hobbit the king set his fancy on. Very sorry, sir.”

The Dwarf stepped aside and bowed. 

Bilbo nodded a bit awkwardly, unaccustomed to such deference. He had barely passed the Dwarf before nearly running into another one.

“Excuse me,” he said, toe still tapping away. The Dwarf he’d just passed caught up to Bilbo.

“Tch, you’ll get nowhere with that bird-voice ‘o yours, lad,” he said. He took a deep breath and shouted, “ _Oye, you lot! Prince Consort needs through!”_

The hallway parted instantly, most Dwarves nodding a bow to him. Bilbo flushed bright red.

“Now, I wouldn’t say that was exactly necessary,” he muttered, scuttling down the hallway. He did appreciate it, though, as his walk to his room was finally unhindered. He could have done without the bows, though. It was enough to make a proper Hobbit mortified.

Word must have gotten around to keep an eye out for a Hobbit, because Bilbo never had to fight his way through the halls again. He got fitted for clothes, including a smart new vest and slacks, which were produced in record time in order to make the deadline of the coronation. 

He was a part of the coronation, though not officially Thorin’s spouse yet. Apparently, he was to be one of the many people the crown passed through the hands of before it landed on Thorin’s head. Dwarves were big on ceremony, much more so than Hobbits, but Bilbo found himself pleased to be included in such an occasion.

And the crown itself was a whole other subject of debate because Thorin refused to wear the Raven Crown that he had worn in those horrible days when the castle was under siege.

“I will not let that cursed thing touch me again,” Thorin vowed, to the dismay of his council. He fairly trembled with emotion, and Bilbo could see the dark guilt behind his eyes. Bilbo stroked his hair comfortingly, glad beyond measure he could sit at Thorin’s side during council meetings.

“I understand, my king,” Balin said calmly. “But the matter remains that the Raven Crown is the only crown of kings in this mountain. Every monarch has worn that crown. There is no other.”

The other Dwarves on the council muttered agreements. Thorin’s hand gripped Bilbo’s under the table. Bilbo pressed his leg against Thorin’s.

“I will not wear it again. As soon as I put it on, my mind began to wander from the truth. There is a reason why I wear only iron clasps and beads now; I cannot wear gold, nor abide silver. The touch of precious metal stagnates my thoughts to nothing but its gleam. If I must wear that crown, there will be no king under the mountain anymore.”

Into the depressed silence that followed, Bilbo said, “Could Thorin not make another crown?”

Every eye turned to him, and he coughed. “This is a new generation of Dwarves in this mountain. Do we really need to cling to symbols of the past, when so much has changed already? And why should a crown matter more than the Dwarf under it? Thorin is a king, yes, no one disputes that. He is also a smith, and that should not be forgotten. Everything he’s gained, he’s made with his own hands. It should stand that his crown may follow.”

One Dwarf Bilbo had not been introduced to cleared their throat. “Your Hobbit speaks wisely,” they remarked. Bilbo puffed up his chest. 

“His Hobbit has a name. Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your family’s.”

“Deidra, child of Tritcha, and my apologies, sir,” the Dwarf said. They turned their attention to the rest of the council. “I am in full support of Master Baggins’ proposal. Are there any who oppose?”

The council dissolved into a debate. Bilbo had found the council couldn’t agree on a lunch order without a long and winded agrument, so that didn’t surprise him much. Thorin murmured, “thank you, my dear. That was good thinking.”

“Not just a pretty face after all,” Bilbo said. His voice softened. “I’ll destroy that dratted crown if I have to—then they’ll have to let you wear a different one.”

Thorin’s laugh rumbled through the council room, drawing the chatter to a close. 

“Well, let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of King Thorin crafting a new crown, say aye,” Deidra said. A majority of the Dwarves present gave their ayes, though some of the older ones looked thunderous about it. Bilbo breathed a quiet sigh, feeling Thorin relax beside him. Business moved on to other matters, less important than the crown debacle, and Bilbo allowed his mind to wander to the coming days and coming years.

— 

The baby was growing more and more active every day. It never failed to make Bilbo’s breath catch, to feel them moving and kicking. The baby was strong enough now for Thorin to feel, and he’d taken touching Bilbo’s middle to check for movement, whenever Bilbo gave an involuntary gasp at a particularly hard kick. Dis was a godsend, talking Bilbo through his many, many questions about childbirth. For all Bofur, Ori, and Fili claimed to be knowledgeable about Dwarves birthing customs—all Dwarves capable of birth apparently were—none of them had actually had a baby before. Dis had, and was an invaluable asset to him. In addition to the baby advice, she was instrumental in filing Bilbo in the history of the Dwarves of Erebor. Stories from the company had given Bilbo a hazy picture of the past, but large gaps still stood in his understanding. Dis filled those gaps in for him, spending afternoons in Bilbo’s study, filling the time and space with her words. She was a natural storyteller, though the tale she told was not gentle nor easy to hear. Dis stopped many times when the pain of it all was too much for her, and Bilbo responded by telling tales from his own childhood. Dis was interested in hearing his experiences as a Changed male as the mother of a Changed son herself. Her unrelenting compassion for the Bilbo’s difficult journey nearly reduced him to tears on several occasions. She became family, just as she had promised him when they first met—and, just as Bilbo had told her, a welcome addition indeed.

Thorin’s coronation passed uneventfully, and the crown that rested on his head was one smithed by his own hand—sturdy, simple, steel. _Plain,_ the council complained. _Understated,_ Bilbo argued. _Comfortable,_ Thorin joked, and that was the end of that. The king under the Mountain had come into his own, and all was well again.

**—**

Bilbo was reading at his desk, content to stay put for the evening when a knock sounded at the door. It was loud and harsh and Bilbo rolled his eyes. He idly wondered which of his bothersome Dwarves it was this time and reluctantly pushed his chair back. He was greeted at the door by a Dwarf he had never seen before. She was taller than most, and very broad. Her shirt sleeves strained to contain her muscles, and her arms were full of a very large piece of furniture.

“From the Royal brothers,” she proclaimed and shoved her way through the door without so much as a by-your-leave.

“What is happening,” Bilbo said blankly. 

She set down the thing with a solid-sounding thud and stretched her arms out.

“Heavy as a boar, that is. The others will be on their way now,” she said, cracking her neck loudly.

“Others?” Bilbo repeated. “What others?”

“Rest of the builder’s guild, some from the design guild, various others,” she said with a shrug.

“I repeat: what is happening.”

“It’s gifting night, Prince Consort, sir,” the Dwarf said like it was obvious. “The two princes commissioned me for the trundle, of which I was very honored, thank you very much.”

“Trundle?”

Bilbo inspected the thing she had brought—it seemed to be a small bed frame made of polished wood, and yet somehow much more than that. The Dwarf stepped forward, pushing the sides of the bed. It clunked into place solidly, much smaller and compact that it was originally, with tall sides cut through with shapes. “Crib,” she said simply. She pulled very hard on the frame and it widened back into the bed frame it had started as. “Trundle bed. Where do you want it?”

“I—what?” 

Before any questions could be answered, someone else knocked on Bilbo’s doorframe. A Dwarf sporting similarly buff arms carried in a rocking chair and sat it just inside the door. He bowed and left, followed by another Dwarf holding a chest of drawers.

On and on the night went, Dwarves of all kinds bringing in all kinds of things. 

Gloin and his wife brought in some hand-stitched clothes, and her apprentice brought nappies. Bombur brought in milk bottles and a book of herbal remedies for various ills. Ori dropped a blanket made of hand-knit squares into the trundle bed. Nori and Dori contributed a pillow and a bedspread each. Dis presented him with a pure white nightdress, beaded and embroidered magnificently, a family heirloom for the naming ceremony. Bofur brought in a whole box of toys, each more intricate (and dangerous) than the last. Balin presented a delicate, slightly charred volume of children’s stories to “read to the wee one when they’re old enough, aye?”. Dwalin handed Bilbo a wrapped package. He opened it, bracing himself miniature axe or throwing knives made for tiny hands, but it contained a set of letter blocks, obviously hand-carved and well-loved. Chests full of towels and nappies, teething beads, little leather booties—those would never become acquainted with _his_ child’s feet—and extravagant tiny fur coats that Bilbo cringed to imagine being ruined by spit up. Anything Bilbo could wish for, they were given. Thorin appeared somewhere around hour two of the deluge, directing Dwarves and moving things around to his taste. Bilbo let him, too confused and tired to put up any real fuss. 

He ended up in the rocking chair, receiving gifts for him specifically. A few hot water bottles, more loose shirts and drawstring slacks for sleeping, a dozen or so books, a whole sheaf of parchment paper and quills and enough ink to drown in. 

Bilbo caught Ori by the sleeve as he deposited yet another wrapped parcel on Bilbo’s desk.

“Ori, what is going on? What’s gifting night?”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it? Don’t Hobbits not have a night where friends and family help prepare for the baby?”

“Yes—well, kind of. Hobbits tend to drop by in families, for tea or elevensies, and bring gifts. But that’s spread out through the months before the birth, not all at once!”

“Seems awfully inefficient,” Dori commented from across the room, straightening a pillow. 

“I suppose,” Bilbo said, still not satisfied. Thorin stopped by to drop a kiss on Bilbo’s head. 

“Is there something wrong?” he asked. Bilbo waved his hand at the roomful of stuff. 

“Thorin, how can everyone be so—we’re still recovering from a war! There’s hardly enough food and clothes to go around as it is. We can’t accept all this.”

Thorin’s hands clasped Bilbo’s. “I know, _ghivashel_. But this is tradition, and more than that, it’s way to restore normalcy. Our people take pride in helping our own—let them find joy in this.”

“Fine,” Bilbo sighed. “But we’ll be reimbursing most of this, especially for those who don’t have a fourteenth share of the treasure.”

“Aye, we’ll give back twice over, once this is through,” Thorin promised.

Bilbo shook his head and laughed a little. “I always thought Dwarves had such small families—at least comparatively—but I see now that Dwarves have more family than even Hobbits do.”

Thorin agreed, “And blood is only half of it, my love.”

—

Spring came early to Erebor, and Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief when it did. The morning of the first true melt, Bilbo hoisted himself (yes, Thorin, carefully) out the window and landed, barefoot, in the frigid soil of the mountain. He had a trowel in hand, papers tucked into his pocket, and a vision in his mind. 

That’s where Thorin found him several hours later, dirt-encrusted and muttering softly to himself, but with a sizable garden marked out on a flat patch of land. 

“Potatoes can go in next week if we’re lucky, tomatoes I’ll start inside—blast, should have started them ages ago! Well, Bilbo, it’s been a busy winter, so you can’t be too hard on yourself. Those camellias did fine inside, but I would see a better variety. Some tulips if I can manage it, though those will have to wait till early summer. They’ll die of cold otherwise, poor things. Maybe a rosebush? Don’t get ahead of yourself, old chap, but I do believe this will be a tidy little garden. I can ask Thorin to—”

A hand descended from above and landed in his dirty curls.

“Oh, hello dear,” Bilbo said, tipping his head back to look at Thorin. Thorin bent forward to kiss him.

“Having a productive morning?” Thorin asked.

“I am! I was going to ask if you’d be able to drag some stone around later—I’ll fence in this a little, keep it organized and safe.”

“I’ll send my nephews this afternoon—no doubt they’ll enjoy the break from princely work. Fili was complaining just last night he hadn’t a wink of time to himself. Just wait until he’s king. Then he’ll know what busy feels like.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t find out until we’re both fat and grey and halfway in the grave,” Bilbo mused darkly.

Thorin tilted his head, appraising his Hobbit. He said, “That’s a bit dismal, my dear.”

“Is it?” Bilbo said. He sighed. “If you must know, I’ve been…thinking. About the battle, and how close I came to having to do this alone. Not the garden, obviously. All of it.”

Thorin’s face darkened. “Yes. I have been thinking about that, too. I am sorry for that, Bilbo. I should have been less foolish. I should have been stronger.”

Bilbo looked down at his trowel, not trusting his voice at the moment. Thorin sat down in the dirt with him, crossing his legs beneath him. “You were as strong as you could have been,” he said at last, but Thorin brushed it aside. He took Bilbo’s face in his hands, leaning their foreheads together.

“I will never leave you,” he said, his voice like velvet steel—strong and immovable, but wrapped in warmth.

“I know you’d never _choose_ to,” Bilbo sighed. “But, Thorin, I feel terribly unsettled. We managed to escape that last scape safe and sound, but there will be other fights to come. I can feel it in my bones. The world is holding its breath.”

“I feel it too. But that breath will hold for a long while yet. I feel the earth move beneath me, but it’s in preparation, not in panic. We will have time, Bilbo.”

“All the time in the world wouldn’t be enough.”

“No, it won’t be,” Thorin agreed. There was nothing else to say, so Bilbo kissed him instead. Thorin leaned back, looking at the pseudo-garden. 

“I’ll bring that stone in myself, love. We can make an afternoon of it. You’ll have the finest garden in all of Erebor.”

Bilbo snorted. “High praise, for it being the only garden in Erebor.”

“There will be more someday,” Thorin said. “We just need time and guidance.”

“We had better get started, then,” Bilbo said, attempting to lighten the somber mood. “You are many things, Thorin, love, but ‘fast learner’ is not one of them.” 

Thorin chuckled at that, and picked up Bilbo’s trowel. 

“Teach me,” he said.

By the time the sun set, the little garden was neatly tilled, pieces of stone thrown away during restoration circling the perimeter in a tidy patchwork fence. Bilbo felt pleasantly exhausted, the way one did after a good day of work. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Thorin until he had a full day uninterrupted with his husband-to-be. Thorin, for his part, looked relaxed. His crown sat on the stone fence, rendering him even more relaxed. The wrinkles around his eyes softened, and he looked younger, despite the hair rapidly greying at his temples. 

He and Bilbo watched the sunset, Bilbo braiding and unbraiding Thorin’s hair until he got the complex five-strand braid just right. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to put that braid in until their wedding proper, but Bilbo sorely needed the practice and Thorin enjoyed the feel of Bilbo’s hands in his hair. So they both let protocol pass them by, content to carve out a moment of peace and comfort. The garden lay before them, empty but expectant, and Bilbo couldn’t help but feel that it felt like a good omen.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said softly, as the first light of the moon spilled over them.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I have something for you.”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. He thought he knew what Thorin meant, and he had been expecting it. Not so soon, however. 

“When did you find time to work on it?” Bilbo asked, taking the hand Thorin offered and getting to his feet.

“Stolen moments here and there,” Thorin said. “Many late nights. I might have…misdirected, a few times, claiming paperwork and council meetings where there were none.”

He led Bilbo to a stone bench that sat just below their window. 

“Wait here,” he instructed and stepped through the open window. He reappeared only moments later, holding something in his hands. It was obscured by a piece of cloudy ivory silk, but Bilbo could guess the size and weight of it.

“I said I would make you a masterwork with my own hands,” Thorin began. “And I have—though it is maybe not a masterwork. I have smithed swords and shields my whole life, out of necessity. I have rarely had the opportunity to smith for beauty, or for pleasure. For you, I attempted both. I am not sure I succeeded.”

He pulled the silk off, revealing a small circlet, much more complex than Thorin’s own simple crown. It was delicately wrought, steel artfully woven into vines and flowers, a flower crown nearly identical to the one Bilbo had woven for Thorin, caught forever in the bloom of summer. Bilbo took it gently. Thorin wrung his empty hands. “I know you do not wish to be king. I do not wish it on you, for a king’s crown is a heavy burden. But if you are to be my husband, you must wear a crown. I would wish it to be  light in both weight and in duty.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Bilbo said.

“Do you accept this masterwork and the offer of my hand?” Thorin asked. 

“I do. I offer you mine in return. But I have no masterwork for you. I’m skilled with my hands like a Dwarf.” Bilbo took a deep breath and pulled the acorn from his pocket, the one that had survived a war to get to this moment. He placed it in Thorin’s waiting hand. “What I do have is time and patience, and a talent for nurturing living things. I offer you this acorn, a symbol of the future of peace I’ve long yearned for. A masterwork it may be, one day, but it will take time and effort to get there. So all I have to offer you is the promise of it.”

“You were going to plant this at Bag End,” Thorin said. “I remember, in the depths of my madness, you showed me this acorn. You spoke of home. Happiness.”

“And now I have both,” Bilbo said. “I would like to plant this here. I would like you to tend to it with me. Do you accept this masterwork and the offer my hand?”

Thorin closed his hand around the acorn, holding it tightly. With his other hand he took Bilbo’s hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. “I accept.”

Thorin took the crown from him and placed it on Bilbo’s head. “It suits you,” he said. Bilbo ducked his head, embarrassed. 

“I don’t know about that. I was never the kingly type,” he said.

“You are more a king than you know,” Thorin murmured. 

As they had watched the sunset, they sat together under the rising moon, the light of it glinting off of Bilbo’s new crown. Distantly, Bilbo wondered why he had so desperately wanted to go back to Bag End, when all he really wanted was right here with him.

—

Theydecided to marry in Bilbo’s ninth month. There was no special significance to the decision, only that that was the soonest they could pull a wedding together. Bilbo had rather hoped he’d have given birth by then, but his seventh month came and past, and baby stayed put. So he settled in for the long haul and helped with wedding planning. It was getting harder and harder to offer his services, however, because anyone who saw him standing asked him politely to take a seat and rest. 

“I’m not made of glass,” Bilbo complained each time, unused to being unable to help, but secretly he was glad. He was tired all the time now, and his feet were constantly sore. His back ached, too, and his shoulders. His breasts had been growing steadily as his pregnancy progressed—to his complete dismay—and were tender to the touch. He waddled rather than walked. It seemed every little thing was drastic enough to send him into bouts of hysterics. Once Kili offered Bilbo his napkin after Bilbo had dropped his on the floor, and Bilbo had drawn the diplomatic dinner quite to a standstill by bursting into tears at the kindness of his gesture. Thorin had been at his side in an instant, shushing and reassuring. Bilbo had excused himself, too embarrassed to stay, and Thorin had gone with him. Bilbo cried his way through the rest of the evening, with Thorin to soothe him.

The day after the napkin fiasco, Bilbo woke in a right terrible state. Every part of his body ached.He must have looked positively stormy because many Dwarves gave him a wide berth on his way to the kitchens. Bombur, unfazed by Bilbo’s scowl, said lightly, “Morning. A ran of sunshine this morning, aren’t you?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. He couldn’t rightly insult the Dwarf who supplied the majority of his cravings, and Bombur knew it.

“Just a bit of light teasing, Bilbo, in hopes you might smile a little.”

“I’m too tired and achy for that. But thank you.”

Bombur clucked his tongue. “My wife felt the same way in her time. Baby’s close, mark my words. You’ll feel better when the little one is out and about.”

“I sure hope so,” Bibo said. “But then, they had better wait until after the wedding. We’ve done too much planning to postpone it.”

“Babies come when they’re ready, and most of the time, when it’s most inconvenient.” Bombur said wisely. His face cracked into a smile. “I have money on the wee one deciding to pop out while you’re on your way down the aisle.”

Bilbo groaned. “That hadn’t even occurred to me! Bombur, you’re not helping at all.”

Bombur pushed a bowl of porridge, sweetened with cream and strawberry jam, into Bilbo’s hands. 

“I’d say I’m helping quite a bit,” he said jovially. “Just trying to prepare you for the inevitable.”

“Well, let’s hope this baby has more manners than their uncles,” Bilbo said as he settled down with his porridge. He inhaled it, as he usually did, and then instantly felt very strange. A bit of a lie-down would help, he decided, and started to shuffle his way back to his and Thorin’s rooms. Halfway there, he stopped in his tracks and stiffened. He’d been using the bathroom more and more frequently as his pregnancy progressed. Sometimes it was a bit of a mad dash to get there in time—his bladder had a breaking point, and it wasn’t wise to push it. He raised his shuffle to a trot. He’d just managed to get inside the threshold of the room before water gushed down his legs, quite ruining his trousers. 

“Now that’s strange,” Bilbo muttered, mightily embarrassed. Then the pain hit. 

He yanked on a clean pair of trousers and set off down the hall at the quickest waddle he could manage.

“Thorin!” he called, hoping the dark head he spotted down the hall belonged to him. The dark head turned. 

“Not quite,” Dis called back. She made her way over to Bilbo, who was bracing himself against the stone wall as casually as he could. “My brother is already in court, there’s that meeting with the elves this morning. Going to be painfully boring.”

“Well, it’s about to get a touch more exciting,” Bilbo said. “I’m in labor.”

Dis’ face lit up like the sun. 

“Yes, yes, yes!” she whispered under her breath. She ran up the hall and started banging on one of the doors. “Ori! Get your ass out here!”

Ori popped out of his room instantly. “Is it now?” he asked.

“It’s now,” Dis confirmed. Ori practically danced a jig on the spot, and nearly skipped over to Bilbo. He slipped an arm under Bilbo’s to support him, grinning ear to ear.

“Dis, can you fetch Nomi? And Thorin?”

“No. I’m saying with Bilbo,” Dis said resolutely. “But my boys will be glad to help, once I get them up. Give me a tick, and then I’ll help you get him to the birthing room.”

It took several moments of pounding on doors, but once Dis roused the princes they were off like a pair of arrows. Bilbo barely noticed, doing his best to breathe through the sharp pains and came and went. Dis supported Bilbo’s other side, and with help from both, Bilbo was led to the healing halls. Instead of showing him to the birthing room, however, Dis insisted on helping him walk the halls for a while.

“All to move things along, until we really get going,” she said cheerfully. Ori tried to help, but he was too jittery to stay in place.

“Anything I can do, Lady Dis?” he asked. She waved a hand.

“Yes, go build the fires in the birthing room. Gather towels and hot water, and get him a pillow and some clean sheets.” 

Ori nodded and disappeared. 

Weakly, Bilbo asked, “how long does having a baby take?”

“Depends, my dear. First times are a little more tricky, and you’re a special case. Why?”

“Nothing,” Bilbo said. “It’s just that…the wedding is in seven days.”

Dis laughed, gently shaking Bilbo’s shoulder. “Well, I can promise the baby will be out before then. I wouldn’t worry about it, Bilbo. You’ll be walking down the aisle on time, mark my words. It might take a little doing to get your suit altered before then, but that’s really the least your worries.”

Bilbo let out a deep breath of relief. “Good. Alright, let’s get to it, then.”

—

Birth was hard, and it was painful, and Bilbo was never, ever doing this again. He told this to Thorin, several times, with increasingly colorful language. Thorin took it all with good humor, talking a sweating, crying Bilbo through the pain of contractions.

“It’s your—bloody fault,” Bilbo wheezed. “You’re so sodding—ugh!— _big,_ and your baby is too. Oooh, I’m going to kill you, Thorin, I really am.”

“And I would deserve it, dearest,” Thorin soothed, knowing that Bilbo didn’t mean a word of it. “Deep breaths, now, love.”

“I know, I know! Tell me again and I’ll not be the only one having trouble breathing!”

Thorin pressed a kiss against Bilbo’s sweaty hairline. “Oh, I love you,” he said.

“I love you too—unh! _Where is Nomi?_ ”

“She’ll be here straight away,” Ori promised. He held Bilbo’s other hand, wincing at the strength of the Hobbit’s grip.

“I understand now why my mother laughed at me for asking when I was going to get a little brother or sister,” Bilbo moaned. His toes curled as another wave of pain swept over him.

Nomi came rushing in, finally, and Bilbo cried with relief. If there were fresh tears on his face, no one mentioned it and Thorin was quick to wipe them away.

“How are we today, Master Hobbit?” Nomi said pleasantly.

Bilbo swore at her loudly.

“Oh, good,” she replied. She ran her hand over Bilbo’s stomach and leaned over to take a peek between his legs.

“Baby’s in excellent position and keen to see the world. We’re chugging right along, aren’t we?” she said.

“You could call it that,” Bilbo said from between gritted teeth. Nomi chuckled. She looked happier than Bilbo had ever seen her. She practically hummed as she tied a clean smock over her usual tunic.

“Perhaps you could be less pleased about my husband’s pain,” Thorin grumbled. 

“Just trying to keep the mood light, my king,” she said. “A birth is always a moment of joy for a healer.” 

Bilbo touched Thorin’s hand and Thorin relaxed back into his chair. The contractions ceased for a few blessed moments, and Bilbo took the opportunity to breathe deeply. Nomi took the opportunity to turn him on his side and lift his leg over her shoulder. 

“Okay, this is going to get tricky very quickly,” Nomi said. “I’ll tell you when to push and when to relax, but I’m sure your body will know what to do as well. Are you ready?”

Bilbo swallowed nervously, his pulse thudding in his ears. Thorin kneeled on the bed, awkwardly wrapping his arms around Bilbo’s upper half. 

Bilbo nodded. “We’re ready.”

What followed was a haze of pain, heavy breathing, and a great deal of shouting. Nomi’s voice puttered out direction and encouragement at a steady pace.

“Push now…..again, good. Good, sir, very good! Push. Once more! Why Master Baggins, you’re old hat at this, aren’t you? Good, good job, sir. You’re nearly there!”

Against the constant patter of Nomi’s rough voice were Thorin’s velvet whispers of love. Bilbo remembered that, more than anything else. That was the only thing he really heard, until a shattering cry split the birth room and the roaring pain receded into a dull ache of memory. 

“You did it, my love,” Thorin rumbled, pressing his face into Bilbo’s neck. Thorin’s tears mixed and slid with the sweat beading down Bilbo’s neck. With Thorin’s help, Bilbo settled on his back again, propped up on his elbows.

“The baby,” Bilbo gasped. “Where is…”

“She,” Nomi supplied helpfully. “At least that’s what we’ll call her until she gets a better grasp of the world! And here she is, I’ll hand her to you presently.”

Nomi held the child, still red and damp with blood. “Pop open your shirt, Master Baggins, and let baby feel your skin. It’s good bonding for both of you.”

Bilbo fumbled with his shirt but his hands were too nerveless to undo the buttons. Thorin’s hands moved over Bilbo’s, stilling their shaking. He undid the buttons quickly, exposing Bilbo’s chest. Nomi placed the baby against his breast. All the breath left Bilbo’s body in a rush. It was like a piece of himself that had been missing slotted back into place. Gently, his shaking hands came up to cradle the babe lying against him. He stroked her head, the wealth of fine dark hair already growing there. She was worth every moment of pain, every sleepless night and bout of vomiting and rush of tears. She was worth every piece of gold in the mountain and more.

“Hello there, beautiful,” he breathed. “Thorin, Thorin look at her.”

“I see her, love,” Thorin replied, voice deep.

The baby moved her legs against Bilbo’s chest weakly. Thorin chuckled, “Look at that, she’s got your feet! Curls already.”

“And your hair—I’m sure it will be as impossible to tame as yours is.”

“Your eyes,” Thorin said. His finger traced the chubby cheek, satiny-smooth and delicate. “Your face.”

“No, she’s got yours. Strong chin, yes, and your serious brows. Oh, I hope she smiles soon.”

She opened her mouth to cry, gave it one good try, and changed her mind. She yawned hugely. Her little tongue pushed its way out of her mouth.

“Wee one is hungry,” Nomi observed. Bilbo realized she had planted herself firmly between Bilbo’s legs. She drew her hands away, holding a small pot smeared with blood on the sides. “While you were having your little family reunion, I delivered your afterbirth. I can’t believe you didn’t feel it—but then, you’ve had quite the day.”

She smiled, bright and sunny, and patted Bilbo’s knee. “Congratulations to the three of you. Now you better feed that hungry mouth before she really gets to complaining.”

When neither father responded, too caught up in their daughter, Nomi nodded decisively. 

“I’ll give you a moment before letting in the family, then,” she said to unhearing ears. The small baby’s mouth had found a purchase on Bilbo’s breast and seemed quite content to stay there.

“Oh, hungry little thing,” Bilbo murmured. “Like her dad, yeah?”

“Aye, but which one?” Thorin said. “Oh, Bilbo….”

“I know,” Bilbo said. He stretched up, kissing Thorin with tired lips. Thorin kissed back, his smile wide enough to feel. There were a few seconds of blessed, peaceful silence that stretched on into forever. Two moments of absolute calm that marked their first experience as a family. 

It was broken instantly after that, as the door burst open and a pile of Dwarves fell through. It was so like the night that had started this whole daft adventure that Bilbo choked on a laugh, and then the baby was crying.

“Look what you did,” he said helplessly, raising his voice to be heard.

“Terribly sorry,” Bofur shouted back, then winced at the increased wailing it produced.

Ori stood between the bed and the pile of Dwarves, nearly growling. He snapped, “Form a line or leave! A few at a time, and for Mahal’s sake don’t crowd them!”

“At ease, Ori,” Bilbo said. “Let them come and meet her.”

They did, a few at a time, per Ori’s demand. The princes and Dis were first in line. Bilbo could hardly let her go, but let Dis take her from his arms. She wrapped her in a blanket—the one that had wrapped her own babies, once upon a time—and cooed and coddled for a few moments before handing her over to Fili.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” he said. “Is it too late to change my vocation to childrearing? Nursing? Who needs to be crown prince anyway, you can find someone else.”

“Far too late,” Thorin said with a huff. 

“And too early to have one,” Dis said sternly. “Don’t think I didn’t see that idea flash through your head, my son. I’m not old enough to be a grandmother.”

“Fine,” Fili grumbled. He passed her to Kili. Kili rested his forehead against hers—softly and carefully. He came away with a smear of blood for his trouble, but he didn’t seem to mind.

After a few moments, Thorin reached out to Kili. 

“Will you give her back?” he said quietly. Kili deposited her back in his arms and he breathed a sigh of content.

“Thorin, don’t get greedy,” Bilbo said fondly, even as his own arms ached for the weight of his daughter. Thorin shook his head, touching her delicate nose with his finger.

“The others may hold her soon. I just need a moment.”

Instead of trying to take the babe from Thorin’s arms, Fili and Kili put a hand each on his shoulder. Ori placed his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, and the other on top of Fili’s. The other members of the Company filled in, hands on shoulders on hands, making Bilbo and Thorin the center of an interconnected web. Bilbo felt the weight of their hands, their love, and shuddered under the touch. Tears dripped down his face and fell, unhindered, on his lap. He rested his cheek against Thorin’s shoulder and felt his daughter’s weak hand clutch his finger.

—

Nearly three full years since the day he’d left, Bilbo ended up right back at his own front door. It was dusty with disuse, the cheerful green paint faded and peeling. Once upon a time, he’d taken great pride in having the handsomest door in the Shire. He clucked his tongue and shook his head. How small his world was back then! 

“Oye,” a rough voice said behind him, “that’s private property, that is!”

“What, Bag End?” Bilbo asked, turning. Hamfast Gamgee came to a halt a few steps away from Bilbo.

“Mister Baggins!” he exclaimed. “Why shave my feet and call me an Elf, it’s Bilbo Baggins!”

“It is,” Bilbo agreed readily, more pleased than he’d expected to be to see his old neighbor. Hamfast was as rotund and cheerful as the day he’d been when Bilbo left the Shire. It was nice, seeing some things didn’t change when the rest of the world did.

“Still keeping that garden of yours, Hamfast?”

Hamfast said, obviously thrown, said, “I suppose so! Mister Baggins, I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. Most folks thought you perished on that,” he lowered his voice, glancing around, “that adventure of yours.”

“No, no. Came close to it a few times, I won’t lie, but here I am. Whole and hale.”

“I can see that! If you don’t mind me saying so, you look very well—fuller somehow, then you were when you left. The Shire hasn’t been the same, I’ll tell you that, though.”

“I’m sure,” Bilbo said dryly. “And I hate to disappoint, but I’m afraid I won’t be staying long.”

Hamfast put his hands on his hips. “That so? Where are you off to in such a hurry, then?”

“Back home. It’s quite the journey, so we’ll be staying for a trifle. Long enough to cause a stir, I reckon, but I’ll pack up some creature comforts, an heirloom or two, and then off again quick as a wink!”

Hamfast said, “Back where? And where did you even go? You just up and left, shouting about an adventure! Gone three years and then here you are wearing clothes the like I’ve never seen before and all decked out in strange jewelry. Where have you been keeping yourself, Bilbo?”

Bilbo blushed and looked down at his Dwarvish traveling clothes. They stood out from the well-worn, familiar clothes of the Shire, as did his myriad of clasps and beads. His long hair was bound in the complex marriage braid, threaded through with beads identifying his many roles—father, husband, prince, writer, advisor, uncle. His mithril ring glinted in the sun, unignorable even to a Hobbit who hadn’t the cloudiest what mithril was. His circlet perched perfectly on his head, looking for all the world like it was meant to be there. To Hamfast, Bilbo probably looked strange indeed. 

“Well, that’s a long story,” Bilbo said apologetically. Hamfast grabbed Bilbo’s hand, voice and face earnest.

“Then tell me, old friend! I’m sure the missus will have tea on any moment now, and heaven knows we could do with a story to liven up the day.”

“Hamfast, wait a moment,” Bilbo said, gently tugging his hand free. Then, right on cue, a shrill cry split the peaceful Shire air. Bilbo sighed and put his hands on his hips. He knew that cry. And he knew the voice that called out, “ _Ghivashel,_ help me please!”

Bilbo was halfway to Thorin by the time the words had left his mouth. “Just a tick,” he called back to Hamfast. “I’ve got to help this one, and then tea would be lovely.”

Thorin handed over the squalling child in his arms. Bilbo pressed his forehead against hers, making gentle shushing sounds. She gave one last outraged sob and quieted.

“That’s my girl, just having a bit of pout. Nothing wrong with that,” Bilbo soothed. He kissed her cheek. Thorin sighed gratefully.

“Thank you, my love. I dropped her beads somewhere on the road and she’s not very happy with me at the moment.”

Bilbo took Thorin’s hand with his free one, walking back up the road to Bag End. “She’ll forgive you. She always does. In the meantime, Thorin, I’d like you to meet my old neighbor, Hamfast Gamgee. He’s the only other Hobbit in the Shire whose tomatoes can compete with mine. Of course, he’s probably overtaken me at this point. Can’t defend my title from halfway across the West.”

Thorin nodded politely at Hamfast, who looked between Bilbo and Thorin with an unattractive gape to his mouth.

“Hamfast, this is my husband, Thorin, and this,” Bilbo adjusted the baby to sit a little more securely in his arms. “This little sunflower is our daughter, Camellia. Cam, can you say hello to the nice Hobbit?”

Cam was still in the babble-and-scream stage of communication, and she did not disappoint. After an eye-splitting screech hello, Bilbo passed her back to her Da and she stuck one of his beard braids in her mouth. 

Thorin sighed, “Really, my dear?”

“You lost her beads, the least you can do is replace them.”

“Well, that answers a few of my questions,” Hamfast said faintly.

“I reckon it raised a sight more, too.”

“You’re right,” Hamfast admitted. All at once, he seemed to remember his manners. He invited all three of them into his house for tea. 

Thorin had to duck to get in the doorway—the Gamgee home was a touch more compact than Bilbo’s—but Bilbo relaxed instantly at being back inside a Hobbitish dwelling, with its cheerful honey-colored wood and natural sunlight. There were a few things he still missed, after all.

“Bell? M’dear? We’ve company for tea!” Hamfast said, shuffling further inside. Bilbo and Thorin stayed in the foyer. Camellia seemed to enjoy the change of scenery. She let Thorin’s braid fall out of her mouth and cooed at them both.

“That’s her Hobbit side. She smells the tea and cakes warming, I’d wager,” Bilbo said with a smile.

“Aye, probably.”

Bilbo tugged Thorin’s hand gently. “I know this isn’t exactly your cup of tea. I’m afraid you’re in for an afternoon of small talk and gossip. And every afternoon after that, once word of our arrival gets around.”

“This is important to you, love,” Thorin said. “You’ve lived through Dwarven nights of drinking and singing and our ridiculous court’s foppery. I can brave a few afternoons of idle talk. This is your world, and I am honored to share it, just as you have shared mine.”

“Oh, hush, you great romantic, you’ll make me cry. No crying before tea allowed! Unless you’re a baby, of course,” he said, gesturing to Cam, quietly babbling around her Da’s once-again stolen braid.

Bilbo kissed his husband gratefully. Thorin understood, somehow, that Bilbo didn’t have to come to the Shire to get books or baby clothes or family heirlooms. He knew that Bilbo had to come back and show the Shire what he’d made. The life, the baby, the marriage, the crown—all of it, and so much better than they’d thought of him. Bilbo needed to show the Shire just how well he had outgrown their small ideas and petty gossip. He needed Thorin there calling him by his real name, introducing him as his husband, and talking about what a good father he was, what an important member of the court he was. Bilbo needed to show off his successes, and Thorin understood it all without him having to say a word.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sidras-tak on tumblr and i'd love to hear what you thought of this fic


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